


Fools Rush In

by lackadaisical



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5496911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lackadaisical/pseuds/lackadaisical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because, underneath everything—the heroics, the overconfidence, the bravado—he’s just a pilot. And she’s just the woman who saved his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I See the Danger There

**Author's Note:**

> Set two years before the events of Episode VII.

This wasn’t supposed to be happening. This mission was supposed to be _easy_ ; no one was supposed to get hurt. No one was supposed to die. But then, Munn’s engine was flaming, Vore’s fighter combusted into an inferno, and Poe was too occupied trying to dodge the barrage of blasters to cover his squad.

His first flight as Black Leader and he already lost one. Knuckles white on the control wheel, he jerked the X-wing hastily left, barely barreling out of a collision with a TIE.

Perhaps he should have known; every aspect of life with the Resistance was difficult; nothing ever came simply. Why did he expect his first mission leading to be different? But, he fooled himself, allowed himself to relax: bombing the First Order grain reserves on Naboo was laughably straightforward. No TIEs appeared to intercept them; there was no return fire from ground turrets as they set the warehouses ablaze.

But then, they broke the atmosphere and found a double squadron of First Order fighters sitting, waiting for them—three TIES for every one X-wing.

Chaos.

Red and blue blasts firing, two fighters on his tail as he dodged, trying to pick off enemies clinging to his less experienced pilots.

BB-8 swiveled anxiously on the fighter’s back, squeaking every time it managed to land a hit on the enemy, which—with more Resistance fighters being picked off or jumping into hyperspace, fleeing for their lives—was few and far between.

Poe didn’t blame the deserters. His subconscious, the sensible part of him he rarely listened to, was screaming at him to crank the throttle forward, to shoot off in hyperspace towards D’Qar and safety. General Organa would have the deserters court martialed but he would testify for them, defend them, and they’d have latrine duty for a month. It was better than being executed for cowardice.

Slamming down hard on the firing control, Poe fired a steady stream of red as he leveled out with a TIE, blowing it all to hell. Grinning, he yanked the wheel upward, narrowly dodging the explosion he created. Rocketing past Pava, now free of TIEs on her tail, he gave here a brief salute.

BB-8 yelped: Poe had two enemies of his own nipping at his fighter’s wings. Certainly explained the sudden shower of explosives.

Rotating the wheel counterclockwise, Poe sent him and BB-8 into a tight downward spiral. The TIES and their barrage followed. BB-8 returned fire as best it could, managing to blast one of the TIEs’ fuel tanks, igniting it into an explosion.

“Nice one, BB-8!” Poe cheered.

The words were barely out of his mouth when the X-wing shuddered.

Something was wrong.

Pain, sudden and searing, clawed up his leg. There was an angry siren and Poe’s world flashed red. The X-wing was hit; Poe was hit. He spared a glance down; there was a long gash in his jumpsuit, crimson red welling from it. Clenching his jaw, Poe ordered, “Cover me, BB-8.” Then, switching on his communication systems, he shouted to his pilots: “I’ve been hit; I’m going to make an emergency landing on Naboo.” Pause. “Pull out. I repeat: pull out!”

He switched the comm off; there was nothing the others could do.

He pointed the nose of the X-wing towards Naboo and they dove, fast and desperate. Yet, it wasn’t fast enough. With the cockpit flashing red, the sirens ringing in his ears, it seemed they were covering no distance whatsoever. BB-8 returned fire but couldn’t land a hit.

Poe leaned forward, urging the fighter forward, and then there was another shudder. Blowing past him, jagged and afire, was one of his wings. The control wheel quaking in his gloved hands and he wrestled to maintain controller.

Another hit; the engines failed and BB-8 screeched.

The X-wing broke the atmosphere and they were in a free fall towards the stretch of green and blue below.

“Bail! Bail!”

The top of the X-wing sprung open; slamming his hand on the deployment mechanism, Poe and BB-8 were launched from the fighter and were sent tumbling, head over feet over head, weighty in their rapid descent, chutes strapped to their backs.

#

Poe wasn’t sure when he lost consciousness, he just know, when he returned to it, he was suspended from a tree. He glanced up; his chute was tangled in the upper branches and he was left to dangle in midair, nearly twenty feet from the ground. He twisted his arms around, trying to reach his pocketknife, but, after a few minutes of struggling, he knew it was useless.

He sighed.

Craning his neck around to look at the forest below him, he found BB-8 rolling anxiously far below. Poe could have laughed in relief. Instead, he called: “Think you could help me out, bud?”

The little droid chattered: he tried but couldn’t find a way to reach Poe.

Poe sighed; of course it couldn’t be simple.

“Could you find someone who might help?” Poe asked. He knew there were strong Resistance sympathizers on Naboo but, knowing his luck, it may be too optimistic to think BB-8 might find one. It would be _far_ too simple.

Yet, it was the only solution he could think of.

BB-8 tweeted agreement and went zooming off, rotating its little body as fast as it could, anxious to help its master down.


	2. When We Met

When Poe came to again, he was lying on his back and most decidedly not in a tree. It was quiet, save for the cracking of a fire. He was warm.

He must have dozed off when he was waiting for BB-8 to return. Perhaps it was the blood spurting from his leg making him so drowsy. Thinking of his leg, he tried to bend it but found he couldn’t; it was restrained. Frowning, his eyes flicking open, he sat up to inspect his leg. Pulling aside a thin blanket, he found his right pant leg torn away, exposing much of his thigh and calf, encased in tightly bond bandages. Surprisingly, it only occasionally throbbed. His frown deepened.

Prodding the bandages with careful fingers, he hissed sharply.

“I wouldn’t touch that,” said a sudden, feminine voice.

Poe started, tearing his eyes away from his leg, finally noticing his surroundings. His eyes alighted on a woman, hands on her hips and a stern frown tugging down her lips. Her clothing was strange, outdated, with a heavy tunic under a belted robe and gray leggings. After blinking at her, the remainder of the room came into focus.  It was cramped, cozy, with beams strung with dried plants, wood floors covered in fine rugs, and a fireplace dominating much of the wall closest to his cot. BB-8 was parked before the fire, reminiscent of a cat.

The woman and her antique surroundings reminded him of old holos he and his Mom watched when he was little. Before she passed away.

Shifting the thin blanket back over his legs, he asked, warily: “Did BB-8 find you?”

Her abrasiveness gave way to a brief smile, though she still kept keen watch of his leg. “Your little droid hammered on my door until I finally followed him.”

Poe nodded, chuckling. His vision spun, bile rising in his throat, and he raised a hand to cradle his forehead. After a breath, nausea subsiding, he replied: “That sounds like BB-8.”

BB-8 tweeted: wasn’t Poe going to thank him?

“Thanks, buddy. I’d still be in that tree without you,” Poe immediately offered. His world had stilled and he glanced up to his droid with a smile. He turned back to the woman, still fixing him with a concerned stare, and said, “And thank you, too; I’m sure you’re the reason I’m not dead.”

She snorted, crossing her arms. Seeming to realize she was standing listlessly, she went to sit at the roughly hewn table pushed against the far wall, perching herself on a stool. “If you didn’t die from blood loss or infection, the Troopers would have gotten you.”

“Troopers?” repeated Poe, paling.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he thought. He hadn’t even paused to consider this woman, his savior, wasn’t a Resistance sympathizer. Shooting a furtive glance at BB-8, his world spun again. Waiting a moment for a sudden wave of nausea to pass, he shifted his gaze back to the woman.

She nodded, briskly, and began to sort through vials and jars on the table. The glasses clinked as she worked. “First Order Stormtroopers. The countryside is practically crawling with them, looking for a downed X-wing starpilot.” Poe watched her carefully, mapping the quickest route to the window or the doors out of the corner of his eye. But then she was continuing: “It’s lucky your BB-8 found me when it did.”

BB-8 trilled: you’re being rude.

Poe didn’t glance away from the woman but asked, somewhat confused: “What?”

Insistent now, BB-8 added: introduce yourself. She _did_ save your life.

Clearing his throat, Poe said, “Uh, I’m Poe Dameron, by the way. And you know BB-8, of course.”

She glanced up from her work before dropping her head, carefully focusing on wrapping linen and twine over the top of a bottle. Just when Poe was sure she wasn’t going to reply, she said quietly: “Enne.”

Offering a lopsided smile, he asked: “Enne? Just Enne?”

Enne glared sharply at him. “Just Enne.”

Raising a hand in a placating gesture, Poe said: “Alright, alright, ‘Just Enne’ then.” She glowered down at the jars. Silence, tense and thick, settled until he couldn’t stand it a second longer. He blurted: “Are you planning on turning me over to them?” Enne blinked at him, startled. “I mean, I would prefer if you were just up front about it.”

One of Enne’s brows quirked. “If I planned on turning you in, would I have bandaged your leg?”

A smile, bright and easy, stretched across his face. “A good point.” Seeming abashed by his disarmingly roguish grin, she returned it minutely.

#

The next morning—or Poe thought it was morning from the weak light filtering through the window—his leg was throbbing continually but faintly enough to ignore, and he was uncomfortably warm. He cast the blanket off.

Enne bustled into the den briskly. From what he could discern from watching her flit in and out, the house was small—a hunting lodge—with doors to a bedroom and outside. She ignored his curious eyes, tracking her, as she sorted through her collection of jars and vials before bustling away again.

Once, she banged out of the exterior door only to return twenty minutes later, empty-handed. She continued sorting.

It seemed to be all she did: sort, mutter, sort some more.

BB-8 followed her, leaning against her leg heavily when she plopped onto the stool, begging for attention. Poe rolled his eyes; the droid was shameless.

Enne rubbed its spherical head, distractedly.

Finally, thoroughly overcome with curiosity, Poe asked: “Just Enne, what are you doing?”

Startled, she blinked up at him only to scowl. It was apparent she did _not_ want ‘Just Enne’ to become a joke between them. Nevertheless, she replied, “I’m looking for summer flax powder.” With a vague gesture to his leg, she added: “It’ll fight infection.”

“Infection?” repeated Poe, sitting up straight, alert, and ignoring the surge of roiling nausea.

Brushing aside his question, Enne asked, “Do you feel uncomfortably hot? Feverish?”

 Poe hesitated. “Well…yes.”

Her lips pursed. “The infection is already setting in.”

“What do you mean ‘already?’” demanded Poe, trying to rise. Now the bile, rocketing up his throat—burning his mouth and nose with stomach acid—was impossible to ignore and he flopped back down, staring at the ceiling beams as he swallowed heavily.

There was a squeak and a crash—the stool toppling over, he’d later find—and Enne’s head soon appeared in his vision, hovering over him anxiously. “Is it the nausea?” Poe managed to nod. “Here, drink this.”

She hauled him up, wedging herself behind him to support his back as she held a stout cup to his lips. He drank eagerly: it was water. After a few gulps, the nausea subsided and Poe sighed, suddenly exhausted. Closing his eyes briefly, trying not to linger on her warm breath on his cheek, he repeated his earlier question: “What did you mean by ‘already?’”

Her sigh was a gust of cool air across him, tickling his nose.

“When I was bandaging you up last night, I made up a salve to help your wound heal faster but I couldn’t find the summer flax to act as the antibiotic in the dim lighting. I was looking for it last night and just now, but I’m out. I tried going out to hunt for some but it appears the wreckage of your starfighter set my usual patch on fire.”

Poe cringed; nothing could ever be simple.

“So what does that mean for me?”

“Well, if you drank the summer flax powder by now, we could avoid the infection,” Enne began slowly.

Poe really didn’t want to know the answer but asked anyway: “And if I don’t?”

“You’re going to be in for a rough night,” Enne replied, simply, grimly.

He finally flicked his eyes opens, looking up at her. Her mouth was a hard, downward drawn line.

“Is there anyway you could get the powder?”

“I’d have to go into Theed. It’s about eight hours there and back,” Enne replied, clearly having thought through this possibility.

“What will happen to me without it?”

Enne’s silence was answer enough. She slowly, gently leaned him forward before rising and assisting in laying him back down. With a charming smile—or as charming of a smile as he could manage while lying incapacitated—he tried: “Well, at least you were graced by my presence for a little while.”

She cracked a smile, her lips twitching upward, before it evaporated with a shake of her head. “If you survive the night, Dameron, I’ll have to suffer your presence longer than a little while.”

He smiled: she remembered his name.

#

The minutes inched into hours as the afternoon dragged on. Enne mixed up a disgusting cider in an attempt to ease his growing fever and changed his bandages but his discomfort—the growing heat building all over him, stoked like a fire, and the increasingly recurrent jolts of agony from his leg—only grew. BB-8 stationed itself next to his head, watching over him anxiously.

He was haunted by Enne’s foreboding words echoing in his thought and, in an effort to distract himself, he asked, “Where, exactly, is here?”

Enne was clearing away the jars and vials, reorganizing them into a cupboard. Without hesitation, she returned: “Naboo.”

He gave her a supremely unimpressed glower, only slightly disappointed when she didn’t look. “I gathered as much.”

Now she shot him one of her rare smiles. Her lips falling into neutrality once more, as if afraid to smile for long, she added: “We’re in the foothills of the Brymell Mountains, about four hours from Theed by hovercraft.”

“And you live out here? By yourself?” Poe asked carefully. He reached for the water cup Enne left by his cot. Seeing what he was reaching for, BB-8 plucked it up with its little metal arm, offering it to him. Poe grinned, accepting gratefully.

He wasn’t the least surprised when Enne gave him a sharp look but was astounded when she replied: “I lived out here with my brother.”

Swallowing his water, he asked quietly: “Brother?” He set the water aside.

Purposefully avoiding his inquiring stare, she nodded. “Yes, brother. He died a year and a half ago.” There was silence; from the hard set of her shoulders, Poe knew she didn’t want his condolences, wouldn’t accept them if he offered, and why should she? He was just some loser starpilot she was unfortunate enough to have dumped on her by an adorably insistent droid.

Unexpectedly, she continued: “I have two brothers. Leo realized before I did that our older brother…well, he realized a lot of things before me. Leo got us out of Theed, got us here, and we made ourselves useful to the locals. I learned about medicines. Leo learned carpentry. We helped people.”

People, Poe realized, including him.

 She took a deep breath, drawing herself up straight, and gathered an armload of jars, disappearing into the bedroom. It was a long while, hours maybe—Poe had lost his concept of time—before she returned. He was ready when she did.

“My parents were members of the Rebel alliance. For the first four years of my life, my grandpa raised me. The only thing I can really remember from my childhood is this constant fear of my parents’ deaths. I kept thinking that, one morning, I’d wake up and Grandpa would tell me they died. That these two people, who I labeled ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ in my mind though I couldn’t really remember their faces, had died. They came back to live on Yavin 4 permanently but Mom still went on missions sometimes...she died when I was eight. ” He was now looking at BB-8. He placed a hand on its head, the little droid leaning into the touch. “I guess its Dad and Grandpa's turn to be constantly afraid for me.”

His heart sank; he was shot down, perhaps presumed dead. What if his dad and grandpa woke up that morning only to get a hologram call from General Organa? What if they were crying over him? What if they were mourning him?

Sensing the dark turn on his thoughts, BB-8 beeped softly, offering him the water cup again. Poe took it with a small smile, mumbling, “Thanks.” After he gulped down a mouthful, he noticed Enne watching him carefully. He quirked a brow. “What?”

“Why…why did you share that with me?” she asked, quietly.

Poe offered her a smile, a genuine one, unlike all the rest. “It seemed unfair for you to tell me something personal and for me not to tell you something, too.”

#

As the light from outside weaned, Poe’s world hazed into blurring smudges of color and every inch of him ached, burned. He was racked with violent shivers. BB-8 was a white and orange smudge constantly hovering over him. Enne’s dark hair and tanned skin mixed together until there was no distinguishing where one part of her ended and the other began. He could only focus on her mouth, forming words of reassurances, but his ears were deaf to her.

His dreams couldn’t be discerned from the waking world; the waking world no different than his dreams. He saw Munn’s engine exploding in the fireplace’s lapping flames, saw Vore’s terrified face—just before his X-wing was engulfed in a fiery explosion—worn by Enne as she dabbed his forehead with a cold cloth.

But then he was writhing, too hot, too cold, too sweaty, and tangled in the thin blanket. He burned with a clawing agony, spasms wrenching his limbs, and he strained to sit up, stand up. He strained to be free, to escape the prison of lying on his back. But, firm hands held him down: gentle hands, hands that seemed to care for him. He only faintly registered them, pressing down on his shoulders, only knowing he could not strain free.

Sleep, dark and searing and heavy, dragged him under.

Yet, hanging on the edge of consciousness, hanging on the edge of life, his exhaustion was too great to truly allow for rest.

#

The flames lapping at the warm air melted into disquieting darkness—a darkness suffocating him with its bulk, compressing down on his chest—and there was a weak, artificial light tickling his eyes. He blinked hesitantly; he was restrained at the ankles and knees in an unyieldingly cold, uncomfortable chair. He was cold all over save for warm blood slathering his leg. And he was numbingly, crushingly _tired._

His attempts against the restrains were weak; exhaustion surged over him with every feeble tug. Shoulders weighty, his limbs feeling too long, he flopped back against the cold metal of the chair, gusting out a defeated breath.

Then a laugh, starting as a distant echo but growing louder, more taunting, trickled into the dark dungeon until it was reverberating off the walls, until it rung in his ears, until he was sure it was inside his mind. His eyelids slammed shut involuntarily, his jaw clenching at the grating laughter, and he wanted to scream, wanted to rage, wanted to demand the taunting to stop, to be quiet. But he could not. He was weak, his voice was weak, and he rasped, wheezed.

Just as it began, the laughing stopped and there was a low, gravely voice next to his ear: “So, this is the most daring pilot in the Resistance?”

Poe’s eyes flew open and he jerked his head to the left, to the source of the voice, but found no one.

The voice was in front of him. “How pathetic.” Poe craned his neck up, only looking into empty space. It added, from behind his chair: “I expected someone better. Not someone so weak; so _useless._ ”

And then it was all around him. “Not someone who allowed a pilot to die on his first mission as leader—what a _disappointment.”_ It was invading his every sense, overwhelming in its power, and it somehow gave him the strength to strain, rage, fight against the braces on his ankles and wrists. He shouted at it to stop, to show itself.

It ignored him. “You’re just like the rest of the Resistance: weak.” A sharp pain shot up his leg, more intense than ever before. His vision swam with pain. “Easy to crush.”

Poe saw him then, a man clothed in black and masked by an expressionless helmet. He only ever saw him in Resistance reports, watched his destruction on grainy holograms, but he easily recognized him: _Kylo Ren._

His eyes slammed open; he was lathered in sweat and safe on his cot. Enne was at his side in an instance, pressing a cool cloth to his head and hushing his strangled gasps.

#

The fever broke in the early morning, allowing Enne to sleep for a few hours before rising to change his bandages again. She fixed him a breakfast of milky oatmeal and watched hawkishly as he gulped down half a pitcher of water. He refused to eat her serving of the oatmeal, though she insisted. He was rewarded with a smile for his chivalry, even as he stole hungry glances at her bowl.

By midafternoon of the following day, Poe was feeling astonishingly better and was more than eager when Enne returned to the main room with a rough, but sturdy, walking cane.

“A patient left this behind a few months ago when her ankle healed. She said she never wanted to see the wretched thing again,” Enne explained as she handed it to Poe, looking at the cane fondly.

For a fleeting moment, Poe speculated about Enne looking at him that way.

But then he was accepted the cane. Sitting with his left leg tugged under him and the right extended, Poe inspected it thoroughly, almost reverently. His large, calloused hands rubbed the smoothed bark, an unconscious grin working at his mouth. After a moment, he asked: “Isn’t it a little early for me to be walking?”

She shook her head. “You didn’t actually break your leg, just have an ugly gash. As long as you don’t go running around on it or don’t allow it to scab over properly, you should be able to walk.”

Poe smiled at her.

Though Enne didn’t realize it at the time, she would come to cherish those smiles, the genuine ones that brightened his whole face. And, though it would be some time before she was ready to acknowledge it, his smiles brightened her too.

#

Sometime before lunch the next morning, Poe was cheerily practicing walking, pleased with how quickly he could hobble from one side of the room to the other. BB-8 kept constant, worried watch on him. The little droid would trill in anxiety whenever he came too close to an obstacle or began to teeter precariously, in danger of loosing his balance. When Enne appeared from outside, a sack over her shoulder, she lingered in the doorway, grinning at him.

Returning her smile, though not pausing in his ungainly laps, he teased: “Enjoying the view?”

She chuckled softly—a ghost of laughter—and shook her head. “You’re something else, Dameron.”

“Still on last name basis, huh?” he asked. When she only continued into the room, her grin growing, he added, watching her expression carefully: “Which is unfortunate since you still got an advantage on me, Just Enne.”

“Sit down before you hurt yourself,” was Enne’s reply, betraying no outwardly reaction. Her grin had vanished.

Doing as told, he plopped down on one of the stools arranged around the table; Enne joined him. She swung the sack from her shoulder, extracting a set of men’s clothing from within. “Feyo lent me some of her husband’s old clothes. They’re a little outdated but you won’t look too out of place.” She offered them to Poe.

Accepting them, he inspected the clothes briefly, finding she had given him an orange, wide collared tunic, worn leather vest, a rustic belt, and black trousers. “Thank you,” he said after a moment, hoping she understood the depth of his gratitude.

She nodded simply and he knew she understood. “Of course. Besides orange is your color.” Glancing down at his orange jumpsuit, he chuckled though it really wasn’t that funny. Sniffing, Enne added: “You reek.”

And now Poe laughed because Enne did.

#

“No,” Enne answered, folding her arms tightly over her chest.

“C’mon, Enne, _please_?” he tried again, knowing using her name properly might sway her.

Her resolve faltered for a moment then her frown deepened. “I said no, Dameron, and I meant it.”

“I’m all cleaned up now, so it’s not like it’ll be embarrassing to be seen with me,” Poe returned, fixing her with a charming smile.

Enne fervently hoped he didn’t notice her blush. She needed no extra reminder that Poe had washed, scrubbing away the dried dirt and sweat. He shaved away his scruff and now stood before her eager, charming, and handsome with his tunic clinging unfairly over his chest. She ruthlessly squelched the nervous flutters in her stomach; she couldn’t remember the last time she felt this way and she wanted to keep it that way.

She was trying to _help_ Dameron, not seduce him.

“That’s—that’s not the reason you can’t come,” she said, pretending her tongue hadn’t clumsily jumbled over itself.

“Then what is the reason?” Poe asked without hesitation. When she didn’t immediately reply, he added: “Look, I’ll carry your basket for you, I’ll go wherever you want without complaining, and I won’t even talk if you don’t want me to.”

Finally regaining herself, Enne arched an eyebrow. “Really? You won’t talk?”

Poe nodded eagerly, unconvincingly.

“You _sure_ about that?”

Rolling his eyes, he allowed: “Fine, I’ll probably talk _a little bit_ , but it won’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Enne grinned. Seeing his triumphant smile, she hurriedly smoothed her expression. His smile stayed and she shook her head, tossing a hand up. “Fine. But BB-8 can’t come.”

“What?” Poe exclaimed, seeming to have never even considered this option, staring between Enne and BB-8.

BB-8 chirped despondently: did Enne not like him?

“Of course, she likes you, buddy,” Poe hurriedly reassured, patting a warm on his little droid’s head.

Enne squatted down to its level and replied: “I _do_ like you, BB-8. You’re my favorite droid, but you’re just so noticeable. Besides being the cutest droid on all of Naboo, you never really see droids in the countryside. People will talk and Stormtroopers will come find us.”

BB-8, though still gloomy, chirruped its understanding and Enne gave it a warm smile, leaning forward to place a kiss just next to its lens. The droid turned bashful and Enne chuckled quietly. When she straightened, she practically shoved her basket into Poe’s stomach before setting off from the cabin.

Poe hastily followed.

Standing in the doorway, he hesitated only a moment, blinking at the brightness of the sun as it reflected from the emerald green grass dotted with wildflowers, emerald green trees, and a perfectly clear sky overhead. He suddenly understood why Naboo was considered one of the most beautiful planets in the galaxy.

His eyes shifted to Enne.

She had paused, turned over her shoulder to look at him. She nodded, indicating a footpath, and said, “Come on, Dameron. Get a move on it.”

#

Poe fell into step beside her as she guided them through a copse of trees, intent on reaching her patch of mayweed. Though he enjoyed commenting on her plant pulling technique, often earning chunks of dirt thrown at the face for his efforts, he also was making a concentrated study of Enne as they went.

She often would smile at his jokes but it would be a small thing: a grin barely twitching more than the corners of her mouth, never crinkling her eyes. Her genuine smiles, where her lips parted to show her teeth, where her eyes squinted with happiness, were nearly nonexistent. The rest, the small grins and soft smiles, would slip away as soon as they appeared. It was as if she was afraid to be happy.

He watched her as they picked their way through the shadows of the trees, a frown tugging down her lips, and he found himself saying, “You know what doesn’t really add up to me?”

She glanced up at him but couldn’t meet his eyes for long. “What would that be?”

“Why you’re still out here, all alone,” Poe replied. He knew he was prying, asking too much; especially after all she’s done for him. But, he had to know; he _needed_ to know.

Enne inhaled sharply, replying in a biting tone: “That’s not really your business.”

Silence fell between them, cold and immovable. Poe was stunned at the suddenness of it and he couldn’t stand it being his fault. Swallowing hard, he offered: “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

He knew she turned her scowl to him, could feel the heat of her eyes on his skin, burning him. They continued on. It wasn’t until after they reached the mayweed patch, after she plucked up a few stalks of it, after bundling it with twine and arranging it in the basket he held, did she reply: “I ran away.”

They were close. Enne, laying the mayweed carefully on the bed of other herbs, was staring intently down at the basket. She refused to look at him but they were close. Close enough to share the same breath. He could feel her body heat radiating, smell the faint perfume of her hair shampoo.

“Ran away from what?” he asked softly, carefully, as if she might lash out again.

She winced at his tone. “My brothers didn’t really see…they hated each other. My oldest brother, Hal, he, well…he wanted to control Leo and me. He wanted us to enlist as officers for the First Order.” Poe forced himself not to stiffen though his heart gave a wild thump. “I was twenty-two, so I was old enough to sign up as a lieutenant and…and I did.”

Now Poe couldn’t help from taking a quick step back.

Enne flinched, her hands dropping to her sides. “When Leo found out, he went crazy. He took me away from Theed that night. For a long time I wanted to escape and go back to Hal and the First Order.”

“But now?” Poe asked, voice weak.

“Now, I’ve had time to think and get away from him. I’ve realized what Leo realized about Hal and… _everything…_ ” Enne’s voice trailed off. She cleared her throat, beginning to walk from the copse, towards the field beyond. Poe hurried to keep up, leaning heavily against his cane, as she said in a definitive voice, “So, being out here and being alone is my way of running away.”

#

After all the herbs were collected and bundled in the basket, Enne promised one more stop and then they’d return to the cabin for lunch. Poe stuck to more mundane conversation topics, all the while wondering at the strange woman who saved him.

Walking along a dusty road—their footpath fed into it a half mile before—they began to pass small, but elegant, stucco homes. They had orange terracotta roofs, clearly conscious of architectural beauty, and were varying shades of sandy brown. The air was warmer, more welcoming, as they followed the road, allowing it to feed them into a small gathering of buildings—enough to quality as a village—and Enne led him to a house on the square.

After a smart knock, the door was swung open almost immediately by a portly woman, covered in colorful tattoos. At the sight of Enne, she grinned widely, exclaiming: “Darling! I _was_ hoping you’d stop by with your young man!”

Poe grinned. Enne’s face flushed brilliantly. “Hello Feyo,” she replied. “I just came by to thank you again for the clothes and give you this.” From the pocket of her tunic, she produced a brown packet. “It’s lavender; if you put it under your pillow, it should help with your sleeping problem.”

“You remember everything, don’t you?” Feyo replied, taking it gratefully. “And thank you. Really, you were doing me a favor taking those— _oh_.” She interrupted herself, staring at something over their heads, her eyes wide and her face paling.

Poe and Enne turned to follow Feyo’s gaze.

A small crowd had amassed in the village square as a platoon of Stormtroopers emerged from one of the homes. Between two of them, dragged roughly through the dust, was a young Gungan man, his red eyes wide with terror and brimming with tears. He was crying for his mother.

“What’s going on?” a voice asked, sounding foreign and distant in Poe’s ears. It took him a moment to realize it was his own voice.

“I…I don’t know,” Enne replied, quietly.

They watched as the young man was dragged to the square’s center and tied to a post. The Stormtroopers, pristine in their white armor, deliberated amongst themselves for a moment, before one lashed out with a swift kick, landing it in the young Gungan’s side. He whimpered but refused to cry out.

A woman’s wailing, the frantic tears of a mother, rose over the crowd. The rest of the people looked on, faces stoic and unmoving.

“Why isn’t anyone doing anything? Why isn’t anyone stopping them?” Poe demanded, heatedly and lowly.

“He was probably accused of speaking out against the First Order,” muttered Feyo, too absorbed to hear Poe’s questions.

Enne stared in wide-eyed horror as the Gungan took every kick with near silence; she stared as his mother rushed forward only to be struck down by a Stormtrooper. Only, it wasn’t a young Gungan man she saw. She saw Leo lying prone at Hal’s feet. Hal was laughing, cackling like a villain from an old holo, and he just kept kicking until Leo was unresponsive, until his mouth was brimming with blood. She blinked and Leo was replaced with Poe.

Then, a fierce grip was on her shoulder. “Why isn’t anyone stopping them, Enne?” Poe demanded, forcing her to look at him. When she only stared at him in terror, he shook his head, turning to march towards the square’s center and the Stormtroopers. “I have to do som—”

He didn’t get two steps before Enne grabbed his hand, pulling him back desperately, pleading: “Poe, Poe, wait, please. Just stop, don’t get involved.”

As she begged, a hovercraft arrived. Its silver gleamed and it stirred up clouds of dust. Poe halted, Enne still clinging, and they watched—hands clasped, shoulder-to-shoulder—as the Stormtroopers loaded the Gungan in. Eyes squinted against the noon sun, Poe was paralyzed with tight-lipped horror.

Naboo may be beautiful but a cancer, a poisonous virus, tainted it.


	3. I Felt My Life Begin

Poe woke, exhausted and with deep purple under his eyes. He wished he hadn’t slept at all. His dreams were plagued with scenes of Stormtroopers beating innocent boys in the street and of wailing mothers in the dust and of blood watering the green fields of Naboo.

He blinked around him, finding the fireplace low, embers all that remained of last night’s fire, and BB-8 pinning him with a worried stare. The little droid squeaked, inquiring: are you okay?

Shaking his head, Poe sighed and reached for his cane. “No, BB-8, I think I’m the farthest thing from okay.”

BB-8 only made a sad sighing noise, at a loss. Poe felt much the same.

Collecting himself, Poe glanced around. Enne’s cloak still hung on its usual peg, her herb basket on the table. He grinned marginally, pleased he had managed to wake earlier than her. Plopping down on one of the stools, Poe faced the morning sun streaming through the high window, staring up and out at the tops of the trees. It was quiet. Serene.

With the faint calls of birds echoing, with BB-8 leaning reassuring against his leg, with Enne still sleeping peacefully, he could almost imagine a life for himself, out here amongst the wilderness. He imagined a simple daily routine, helping the local people with farm work or housework or medicinal work. He imagined being completely content—no worries, no guilt crushing down on his chest—and entirely happy.

But then he remembered the day prior and his dreams. He felt enraged and hot all over again.

Resting his forearms on the rough table, he clenched his fists, eyes focused on the furling and unfurling of his fingers. He watched as the tanned pink of his skin turned white under the pressure before he’d open the fist and the color would return.

He didn’t hear Enne enter. “What are you doing?” she asked, voice unexpectedly close.

Poe glanced up, giving her an easy smile and not a hint of his thoughts. “Dazing off,” he replied.

Her lips quirked but the grin was only half formed before it fell. “That’s what I thought.” She went to start breakfast. “What would you like eat? Oatmeal or oatmeal?”

Grinning at her cheery mood, Poe replied: “Hmm, oatmeal sounds good.”

As she took the oatmeal down from the cupboard, there were heavy knocks, shaking the door in its frame and seeming to rattle the house. Enne yelped, nearly dropping the sack of oats, and turned to stare, wide-eyed, at Poe. Another knock and she visibly gulped.

“Enne?” Poe asked, lowly, his nerves beginning to prickle. His fingers itched for his pistol but it had been lost in the X-wing crash. If Enne was anxious, he knew he should be.

She shook her head, warning him to be silent. Enne swished her hands a BB-8 and the little droid obediently wheeled into the bedroom, going to hide behind the door. After straightening her tunic and robes, brushing away imaginary specks of dust, Enne marched purposefully to the door just as there was another set of hammering knocks, wrenching it open.

Poe’s heart gave a wild thump before nearly seizing.

Enne was faced with Stormtroopers. It appeared a whole squadron had descended on Enne’s front door.

Poe consciously forced his hands not to grab for his nonexistent pistol.

The Trooper most immediately in the doorway, with black blaster at the ready, began: “Citizen En—”

“Yes, that’s me,” Enne interrupted swiftly, not allowing her first name to be fully spoken let alone her last.

“We’re looking for a Resistance starpilot. He’s probably badly injured. We need to inspect your home for any signs of him,” the head Trooper continued, undeterred by Enne’s glare.

She folded her arms over her chest, arching a brow and casting all the Troopers with a critical eye. “Pardon me, sir, but do you have probable cause for searching my home?”

This took the Trooper by surprise. “Ma’am?”

Poe imagined the soldier underneath the porcelain white mask blinking in confusion at this fiery woman he suddenly found himself facing. He could’ve cheered.

“Do you have a reason to search my house?” she asked again before adding: “Or a warrant for that matter?”

There was a long, tense pause until the Trooper finally admitted: “No, ma’am.”

“That’s what I thought. Sir, as a citizen of Naboo, I have the right to _not_ have military lackeys barging into my home without just cause. I would be more than happy to show you my collection of herbs when you’ve obtained the proper documentation,” she snapped out. “Good day sir.”

Poe was just as stunned as the Trooper but the Trooper was quicker to recover than he was. “What about him?” A padded black glove was waved vaguely in Poe’s direction.

Enne spared Poe a glance. She replied without hesitation, turning back to the Trooper, “My husband.”

“Then why is he sleeping on a cot out here?” Poe had to give the Stormtrooper credit; he was observant.

“Because, sir, he came home drunk last night and I’m not going to sleep with a man who reeks of schöönb.” Enne slammed the door.

Breathing heavily, she slumped against the door, holding a shaking hand to her forehead. Her chest heaved, sweat beading along her hairline. After a pause, she hid her shaking fingers in the folds of her robes. BB-8 appeared from the bedroom, chirping at her in concern: was she okay?

Poe didn’t reply, wanting to know the answer too.

Gulping down air, she announced: “We have about an hour before they come back with a warrant.”

#

Enne shoved a canvas backpack into Poe’s arms, barely pausing long enough to gust out an abrupt “Hold this” before she bustled off again. BB-8 and Poe watched in transfixed bemusement as Enne strode in and out of the main room, another canvas pack in hand and slowly filling it with the odd herb jar, cloak, or coin purse, extracted from the back of a cupboard. It was twenty minutes after the Troopers left, after Enne changed into a black, asymmetrical jacket manufactured by the First Order, that she stood before Poe.

She glanced over him, Poe pretending not to notice when her eyes lingered on the tightness of the tunic over his chest, and, finding him ready, nodded. “Come on,” she grumbled.

They paraded out of the main room and into the bedroom. He didn’t have much time to inspect Enne’s bare personal room, too occupied with watching her shove her bed aside, revealing the outline of a trap door in the floorboards. “Leo built this the first week we were here,” she explained. “He always thought we might need to escape some day.”

“Good foresight,” agreed Poe.

BB-8 chirped in confusion: why couldn’t they go out the front door?

“They’ll have left men behind to guard in case we try to escape,” Enne replied, distractedly. “Which we are.”

Temporarily forgetting the seriousness of the situation, Poe stared at her, mouth slack. “You understand him?”

“Dameron, not the time,” Enne replied, casting him a scowl as she heaved the trap door open. Pulling a flashlight from her belt, she shone it down into the abysmal darkness of the hole, revealing a ladder. Glancing up, she asked: “Do you think you can handle it?”

He shrugged. “It’s going to hurt like hell, but I’ll be fine.”

Enne nodded. They were silent as Poe slowly descended the rungs of the ladder, plunging into the night of their subterranean escape. She handed down his cane and the flashlight before coaxing BB-8 into a sling made of bed sheets. He tweeted apprehensively.

“Please, BB-8,” she begged. “I promise I won’t drop you.”

 Poe called up, grinning wider than he should have: “C’mon, BB-8; I’ll catch you if she does.” He could just imagine BB-8’s lens closing into a glare and he stifled his chuckles.

“Not helping, Dameron,” Enne replied. He could imagine her glare, too.

Finally, BB-8 was being lowered down and then Enne was clamoring down the ladder. She closed the trap door overhead as she went, plunging them into heavy, stifling hotness save for the flashlight, carving a beam of light into the void. “Won’t exactly fool them for long, but it’ll be enough time to get to town and rent a hovercraft,” Enne commented.

Poe shone the light on her, illuminating a smile. “Well, do you want to lead the way or was this all an excuse just to get me alone in the dark?”

Enne scoffed as she started off. “Yeah, right. And anyway, we’re not alone. BB-8’s still here.”

“I could power BB-8 off,” Poe replied, striving to keep his voice light. He knew it was a bad habit of his: trying to make jokes in tense situations.

BB-8 grumbled and Enne chuckled airily. Not replying, they settled into a comfortable silence as they continued along the tunnel. Poe shouldered the pack and tried to avoid looking at Enne’s ass, very well defined in her trousers and unobstructed with the shorter jacket. Glancing down at BB-8, he saw it staring at him, suspicious. He laughed, pulling a face at the droid.

BB-8 chattered: I saw you.

“What did you see, BB-8?” asked Enne over her shoulder.

“Oh, nothing!” Poe interrupted before she could get an answer. Hurriedly changing the topic, he asked: “So, where are we going?”

“To town to rent a hovercraft.”

“No, I meant our end goal destination.”

Her reply was so simple, spoken in one breath into the dark ahead, he thought he heard her wrong. “Theed.”

“What?” he exclaimed. “Theed? But isn’t it overrun with Stormtroopers?”

“Yes but it’s the only place you can get a starship to get off Naboo,” replied Enne. Her voice quivered with—what Poe thought was—fear. But then, Enne didn’t seem capable of fear. She was bold and commanding, hardened by living a solitary life. The image of her, slumped against the door and breathing hard, flashed through his mind.

Perhaps he was wrong; perhaps she was constantly afraid.

“Why don’t we just contact the Resistance?” he asked.

“Every transmitter on Naboo is wired. The only safe one’s are the First Order officers’ transmitters though who knows if they even trust their own,” Enne explained.

 _Of course,_ he thought, _because anything else would be too simple._

“So, are we planning on committing grand theft starship?” asked Poe.

She came to the end of the tunnel then and, as she jammed her shoulder against a wooden cellar door, Enne gave him a roguish grin. “Sounds about right.”

Poe returned her grin. This was going to be fun.

#

Chancing glances away from the dusty road they hummed along, Poe watched Enne carefully. He was sure it wasn’t the junky Landspeeder—likely to break down at any second—making her hands twist nervously in her lap or her teeth worry at her lower lip. After nearly a half an hour of tense silence, Poe reached across the console between them, grasping one of her hands, pulling it away from the sweaty knot of clasped fingers.

“You okay?” Poe asked. It was a painfully simple and stupid question. He tried not to wince.

“Yeah,” she replied, unconvincingly.

Giving her hand a reassuring squeeze, he released it, keenly aware of the tension seizing her at being touched. He returned his hand to the wheel, safe from any more hand holding. In the rearview mirror, he exchanged a brief frown with BB-8, who was squashed into the backseat. Silence fell again.

Finally, BB-8 offered a tweet: could she turn on the radio?

Enne’s fingers immediately flew to the little dials and knobs at the center of the Landspeeder’s dashboard.

“You never said how you understood droids,” pointed out Poe, watching her fiddle from the corner of his eye.

The dusty road they zipped along was mostly deserted save for the occasional Stormtrooper convey. When they passed the first few, Poe’s knuckles went white, gripping the wheel in tight, anxious suspense. But, after the convey drivers didn’t spare them a glance, it became apparent they wouldn’t be stopped. Their descriptions for arrest hadn’t been broadcasted across Naboo yet, apparently. Poe, ever vigilant, still didn’t let his guard down, still keeping careful watch.

She didn’t offer an immediate answer, her lips drawn in frustrated concentration, before she replied: “I grew up with droids.” Another pause. “It’s not working. It’s what we get for renting the cheapest Landspeeder they had.”

Poe couldn’t think of a response, wondering how he could erase the worried edge in her voice, the nervous flickering of her eyes.

BB-8 came up with a solution before he did, as it began in a high-pitched chatter: No one likes us, no one likes us—

Laughing, Poe picked up the drinking song: “No one likes us and we don’t care! We are Mandos, the elite boys, _Mando_ boys, from Mandalore!”

The duo shouted it, repeating the chant without prompting and, with each reiteration, Poe’s voice boomed louder while BB-8’s trilled higher. Both tried to outdo each other until Enne was laughing, waving at them. “Stop it, stop it!” she begged around peals of laughter.

“You don’t like our singing?” Poe broke off while BB-8 continued on.

Around giggles, she replied: “I wouldn’t call that singing.”

“Ouch, that hurts. Doesn’t that hurt, BB-8?”

BB-8 stopped chirping to chime its agreement.

“Well, I’m very sorry,” Enne apologized, turning in her seat to plant a kiss on the top of the little droid’s head. BB-8 ducked its lens, abashed.

“What about me?” Poe demanded, resisting the urge to offer his cheek for a kiss.

“BB-8’s singing was at least tolerable but _yours_ was…” Enne replied, letting her voice trail off and grinning widely at Poe’s feigned offense. Hiding her giggles behind her hand—Poe was very interested to see she was turning bright red—she asked, “Where did you learn that song?”

"My dad taught it to me. Mom was angry with him for days about it but—” he shrugged before continuing, “It’s a Mandalore drinking song.”

Enne scoffed. “I gathered.”

Grinning over at her, he said, dryly, “Oh good, I was worried.” She giggled again, now using both hands to hide her face. “Anyway, one of my dad’s buddies in the Rebel alliance was a Mandalore, real ugly guy apparently, and he would bellow that song whenever they went out for a fozbeer. Grandpa _hates_ the song and Dad would sometimes sing it to annoy him.”

Enne laughed—Poe was exceedingly pleased whenever he heard it—but offered no reply. She studied him, a small smile playing on her lips. “What?” Poe finally asked.

“Oh, I’m just thinking it’s good you had some happy childhood memories,” Enne responded, her voice airy but Poe detected a sadness tainting her tone.

Hoping to bring her laughter back, he gave her a bright smile. “Oh, I have a lot of good memories. About enough to balance out the bad. Before she passed, my mom—she was an Alliance starpilot. Anyway, my mom taught me how to fly when I was five in a Landspeeder kind of like this one. The first time she let me drive it on my own, I went straight into the swamp and Dad had to wrestle it away from something with tentacles.”

“Tentacles?” Enne repeated, giggling. She snorted and her face brightened.

“Yeah,” Poe affirmed, not helping a laugh, himself.

“Don’t do that to this Landspeeder.”

“Well, is there anything around here with tentacles?”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“Then we’re good,” Poe promised, turning his eyes back to the road. The scenery around them had fallen away from dense forest with the occasional field to endless tracks of cultivated earth. Grain stalks swayed as the Landspeeder zoomed by.

Enne had turned her eyes to the fields when Poe asked, carefully: “What about you? Any happy childhood memories?”

Her eyes focused on the road stretching before them, leading endlessly onward to the high walls of Theed, and her nerves seemed to return in a great rush.

Poe wished he hadn’t asked.

If he hadn’t been listening carefully for her response, he would’ve missed her soft: “No.”

#

“We’re just outside of Theed. We should be there in about a half an hour,” Enne was saying as she slid into the booth the hostess showed them to. Neither had eaten since the night before and Poe finally convinced Enne it was wise to stop for lunch.

Commandeering a starship on an empty stomach wasn’t a good idea.

She insisted they stop to eat outside of the city and, after disguising BB-8 as a pile of clothes in the backseat of the Landspeeder—he would be too conspicuous if it joined them—she followed Poe into a seedy cantina. Poe insisted the seedier the joint, the better. Enne was doubtful.

Situating himself across from her, Poe asked, “Are you really _that_ eager to get me out of your hair?”

Her scowl was halfhearted. She soon sighed. “No, of course not.”

He wanted to prod, wanted to ask if she’d miss him when he’d gone, but knew better than to push his luck. He’d only just gotten her to laugh and smile— _truly_ laugh and smile—teasing her with leading questions was beyond his reach at the moment.

Instead, he took great interest in their table, tucked into a dark alcove of the cantina and away from the main door. It was a hologram table, one that displayed the news, and, flicking the switch on, Poe asked, “Do you think we’ll be on the news with wanted stamped under our pictures?”

Enne’s face was drawn. “Don’t joke about that,” she replied, though she attempted to return his carefree grin.

But Poe didn’t reply, his clever response dying on his tongue. His brown eyes were wide, staring and uncomprehending at what he saw.

The news report labeled it as a vicious Resistance raid and Poe recognized the swooping X-wings, the horrific explosions, and raging fires. Only, it wasn’t grain storehouses the starfighters were raining hell on it. Instead of bombed warehouses being incinerated, there were human bodies. The warehouses were replaced with tiny, quaint thatched houses; droids no longer scuttled between the fires, trying to put them out, but rather hapless children, wailing for their burning mothers; silhouettes of humans winked in and out of fires.

“ _What_?” Poe could barely get out in a strangled whisper before the hologram blinked out of existence. He found himself staring at a concerned Enne.

Quietly, mindful of their surroundings, she asked, “Are you alright?”

Poe could only croak out: “What…? What _was_ that?”

“Did you recognize it?” Enne asked, carefully, knowing what her question could be implying.

“I…yes. It was footage from a Resistance raid but I swear, Enne, I swear—” it suddenly seemed very important she believed him as he grabbed her hands “—we were bombing warehouses, not a village. Not innocent people.”

Giving his fingers a reassuring squeeze, Enne nodded confidently. “I believe you.”

“But, but what _was_ that?”

Taking in a deep breath, Enne replied hesitantly, “I think it’s Colonel Hux’s handiwork. He’s the First Order’s best propagandist. He manipulated security footage from the raid, probably.”

Poe’s mouth worked at a reply, only managing to produce silence, and he was saved as their waitress appeared, asking what they’d like to order.

#

Enne kept glancing nervously at BB-8, the towering sandstone buildings, the blue domed roofs, and every pedestrian they walked by. They returned the Landspeeder to the Theed branch of the rental shop and Enne advised they walk the remainder of the way. The way to _where,_ Poe didn’t know, but as the smaller, more modest residences gave way to behemoth palaces and mansions—relics of the days before the First Order and even the Galactic Empire—Enne’s nervousness grew. Her eyes darted over every civilian’s face they passed, scanning each for threat.

Instinctively, Poe grabbed her hand. He allowed himself a smile when she didn’t pull away.

The smile soon fell when Enne turned frightened eyes to him. Weaving their fingers together, not minding the sweat coating her palms, Poe asked, “What’s wrong?”

“BB-8’s so exposed,” she replied distractedly, refusing to meet his eyes.

BB-8 clucked soothingly: it wasn’t the only droid around Theed. They had passed all sorts already.

“And we have nothing to defend ourselves,” she continued, too harried to listen to BB-8. “What if they try taking us? What if—?”

They were threading their way along the streets, keeping close to the towering buildings to avoid unneeded suspicion, so it was easy to pull Enne into an exterior arcade, hiding them behind the sandstone and inside the shadows.

Voice low, mindful of curious ears, Poe demanded, “Enne, please tell me what’s wrong.” When she remained mute, he amended with a shrug, “Besides, you know, Stormtroopers tracking us.”

She stared and Poe wondered how he hadn’t noticed her gray eyes before. Sucking in a deep, rattling breath, the air rasping in her throat, she began slowly, “I…swore I’d never go back.”

“Go back where?” Poe prompted quietly when she didn’t continue.

Enne cast her eyes down to BB-8 and spoke her answer to the droid, “Back home.” Poe’s mind scrambled for a response but came up with only blankness. “When I realized how I’d fallen for Hal’s lies and the First Order’s lies, I swore I’d never go back there. The house is poisonous. But…but there’s a starship there…Hal used to always keep one at the ready and…he still does.”

Carefully, trying not to startle her, he asked, “How do you know?”

“He’s not gotten any less paranoid over the years. If anything, I’d say he’s worse,” she said, finally drawing her eyes back up to meet his. Poe wondered how she could be so sure.

“Are you afraid of facing him?”

“No, he won’t be there,” she answered, confidently. She fell silent, glancing down again. Timidly, shyly, she took his other hand, admitting, “I’m afraid of facing the memories.”

“You’re doing all of this for me,” Poe commented, more to himself then her. He wondered, not for the first time, why she was helping him.

When she didn’t reply, Poe ducked his head to catch her eyes. When she allowed their gazes to meet, to catch, he gave her a reassuring, genuine smile. “Enne, you have to know I’m extremely grateful for all you’ve done for me. You also have to know I’d do anything to protect you. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

She nodded and Poe knew she was unconvinced. Before he could properly think it through—before he could convince himself otherwise—he pulled her against him, arms tight and strong around her waist. She rested her chin on his shoulder, her cheek pressed against his. But, even with her lips so close to his ear, her voice was still a ghostly whisper.

“I hope you’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, "Enne" rhymes with "Penny."


	4. Where Wise Men Never Go

Staring up at the towering mansion before them, Poe was slack jawed and could only say, very intelligently, “Uhhhh.”

BB-8 whistled, equally as impressed.

The front dominated by verandas, the mansion walls were scaled with ivy, ornamented with carefully chiseled gargoyles, and trimmed with bright red terracotta. When he was little, Poe’s mom brought home a travel hologram flipbook and he was almost sure this house, so grandiose and ancient and unlivable, was in it.

“It hasn’t changed,” Enne commented, her voice soft and Poe knew she wasn’t speaking to him.

Glancing over to her, Poe was met with a blank, neutral stare; she was transfixed on the twin, heavy wooden doors.

“When was the last time you were here?” he asked.

Drawn out of her paralysis, Enne swiped her palms down the front of her black jacket before readjusting her backpack’s straps. “Four years ago.” With a steeling breath, she turned her eyes to Poe. Her stare was distant. “C’mon, let’s get this over with.”

Poe nodded but Enne didn’t wait to see it. Marching up to the door, hands balled into fists at her sides, Enne knocked smartly and it seemed to reverberate through the rest of the house, echoing far into the distance. A cold fear prickled over Poe and he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. The sensation of willingly throwing himself into the pit settled over him. He trusted her not to lead him to his death and BB-8’s end and, he briefly reflected, it was stupidly brave of him.

Then again, General Organa always called him stupidly brave.

Enne wasn’t even the greatest risk he had ever taken and she saved his life three times. Once cutting him down from the tree, twice repairing his leg, and thrice helping him escape the Stormtroopers. If she planned on turning him over to the First Order, she had every opportunity to do so before. He had to believe in her, this strange woman living in the Naboo wilderness.

 _But_ , reassured himself _, this is the only way._

Footsteps on the other side of the door approached then, starting as a distant rhythm and slowly increasing until it was a steady click. The distinct image of stuffy butler sprung to Poe’s mind and he wasn’t disappointed when the front door was finally popped open with efficient swiftness. The little man standing there, dwarfed by the door, was wearing the heavy, traditional black Naboo servants’ robes. His face mostly dominated by a bushy mustache. Silence reigned as he stared at Enne, mouth agog.

 “Miss Enne?” the wispy man finally managed to blurt out.

 “Yes, hello, Mister Rogo,” replied Enne, her smile weak and hesitant.

“Oh, Miss Enne! Look at you; you’re all grown up! I just can’t believe—” Rogo began, his tenor voice climbing into a shrill soprano. Poe restrained a laugh as the little man jumped on the balls of his feet, joy too great to contain. “Oh happy day! You’ve finally come home! I just knew you would one day!”

And then he was pulling Enne into a tight embrace. Her face betrayed obvious shock but she still returned the hug uncertainly, giving Rogo’s back a few pats. “Yes, thank you,” she murmured, awkwardly.

When he pulled away, his eyes alit on her canvas pack. “Are those all your things? Where’s your luggage?” His bright blue eyes swiveled around and he finally noticed Poe and BB-8, skulking in Enne’s shadow. Rogo could only exclaim: “Oh!”

Enne reached out, wrapping a hand around Poe’s elbow to present him. “Mister Rogo, this is my husband—”

“Poe Bey,” he effortlessly interrupted, giving the butler an easy grin. “And my droid, BB-8.”

BB-8 twittered a hello.

Poe made a mental note to tease Enne when he got the chance; this was the second instance she passed him off as her husband. He would have to ask if she was implying something.

“Husband!” Mister Rogo repeated, looking slightly faint. “You really are all grown up, Miss Enne—or is it Missus Bey?”

Giving him a warm smile—or an attempt at one—Enne nodded congenially.

“Well, do come in, no use lingering over thresholds,” Mister Rogo said, stepping aside and holding the door wide to allow Poe, Enne, and BB-8 entrance. Placing his hand over Enne’s on his arm, Poe kept her fingers curled around his bicep and appeared to be the devoted, loving husband.

His efforts had immediate payoff as Mister Rogo exclaimed, “You _do_ make a handsome couple.” Closing the door, Mister Rogo hurried ahead to usher them through the foyer and up the main staircase. “Your room and Master Leo’s has been locked up since you left so you’ll have to stay in a guest bedroom until we can get your room opened up, Miss Enne.”

Poe tried very hard not to stare in slack-jawed amazement at the cavernous interior of the mansion. His first thought was it was frightfully cold. His second was that he had never been inside such a beautiful building. The flooring underfoot was entirely milky white marble, the ceilings painted with vibrant frescos and hung with chandeliers, while the walls were papered in rich tapestries. The mansion was a living museum, the air stagnant with dust, and Poe could easily imagine little Enne—scowling, afraid to be happy Enne—tiptoeing around these halls, scared of being loud and earning a reprimand.

He gave her fingers, curled on his arm, a squeeze. She glanced at him briefly.

"It’s alright, Mister Rogo,” Enne replied as they reached the stairs. “I’m sure whatever room you put us in will be lovely.”

BB-8 chattered as it reached the bottom of the stairs: could I get some help here?

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Poe replied, obligingly. He went to stoop and bundle the little droid in his arms.

“Master Poe,” Rogo said before Poe could get ahold of BB-8. “We have a droid elevators if Master BB-8 would like to be sent up that way.”

Glancing down at BB-8, Poe asked, “What do you say, buddy?”

BB-8 whistled in excitement.

Seeming to understand the droid, Rogo nodded. “If you’ll wait here as I settle the Mister and Missus in, Master BB-8, I shall return and assist you.” The droid tweeted his agreement. Satisfied, Rogo turned to continue up the stairs.

Offering his arm again to Enne, Poe arched an eyebrow at her in question. She clearly understood Poe’s concerns and nodded as confidently as she could convey, giving him a weak smile. He clasped her fingers, finding them quivering in barely repressed panic.

“You have such excellent timing, Miss Enne,” Rogo continued, seeming content to monologue. “Master Hal has only just returned to Naboo. He says he’s only here for a little while on official business; he’s actually out right now, visiting the Queen’s court, no less!”

The grip on Poe’s arm stiffened. He squeezed in reassurance.

Her voice came out in a rasping gasp, throaty and barely concealing her terror: “Hal’s here? On Naboo?”

“Oh yes, I’ll have to send him a message to tell him you’ve returned home and that we’re going to have a marvelous dinner to celebrate. We’ll have all your favorites. Gooseberry pie, seared steak—”

But neither Enne nor Poe was listening anymore. Her fingers, clenched so firmly to Poe, were entirely white, all the color from her face soon following. Her breaths were ragged and fast, her eyes wide in panic, and sweat sprung at her hairline.

#

When Rogo left them in a guest room, bustling away to collect BB-8, Enne collapsed on the floor with a breathy sob, her legs too weak to support her. Poe could only stare for a moment, stunned to see tears glistening down her cheeks.

Yet, within an instant, he shook himself from his stupor and was rushing to her side, kneeling down. He had her in his arms before he could think otherwise, reacting as was instinctual, and she melted into his chest, burying her face into his vest. Poe was no stranger to women crying—his mother had gotten weepy over romantic holos in her old age—but Enne was different. She didn’t snuffle and hiccup as he rubbed circles on her back. Her fingers clutched at his vest and tunic, wrinkling them, and her tears were silent.

He would occasionally make a soothing, shushing murmur but he didn’t dare speak first.

Soon, she was drawing away. Soon, she was swiping at her tears. Soon, she was rubbing at her nose. Embarrassed, Enne ducked her head and refused to meet his questioning eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he assured, claiming one of her hands between his.

Shaking her head, but not pulling away her hand, she replied, “You don’t need me crying on you. I just…I…” her voice went weak. Gulping, forcing herself to look at Poe, she confided, “I just didn’t expect he’d be here.”

“It’s going to be okay, Enne, we can slip away as soon as BB-8 gets here,” Poe offered, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

She shook her head. “No, there’s no way. I was planning on waiting around here until night to sneak out. We won’t be able to reach the starships, let alone get off the ground in broad daylight.”

“So… _dinner_ …?” Poe said, speaking the conclusion Enne was drawing, hesitantly.

“Yes,” she replied, gulping heavily.

“Is there no way to avoid him? We could say you’re sick?” Grinning suddenly, he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, adding, “We could say you’re sick from pregnancy.”

A startled laugh escaped her and she gently pushed his shoulder. “Stop.”

Then, there was a knock on the door and the two sprang apart, startled. Mister Rogo’s voice echoed through. “Mister Poe? Miss Enne? I have Master BB-8 here.”

Enne scrambled away, fleeing to the bathroom to hide her red, puffy cheeks, and Poe hurriedly shed his tearstained vest, casting it over the bedspread before hurrying to answer the door. Wrenching it open, he gave Rogo a bright grin. “Thank you very much, Mister Rogo. You’re the best.”

BB-8, at the butler’s feet, shrunk its lens into a suspicious glare. Poe pointedly ignored it.

Sent into a flutter from the compliment—and the overwhelmingly charming smile accompanying it—Mister Rogo spluttered: “Oh well, thank you, Master Poe. That’s very kind of you to say. Is there anything else I could do to be of service to you or the missus?”

“No, thank you,” Poe replied, courteously. “Enne wants a nap after this morning so we’re just going to take it easy this afternoon.”

“Oh, yes, of course. She must be tired,” Rogo agreed. “I’ll come collect you both for dinner at a quarter past seven.”

“Great,” Poe returned, smile still in place. The little butler gave him a bow and was trotting off down the hall. BB-8 and Poe watched him go for a moment before Poe ushered the droid inside, snapping the door shut behind him.

When Rogo’s footsteps had entirely faded, BB-8 asked in a demanding chatter: _What_ is the matter?

Before Poe could reply, Enne’s voice answered, “I’m what’s the matter, BB-8.” Both man and droid glanced up to find Enne in the doorway to the bathroom, leaning against the frame. Her cheeks were still puffy, her eyes rimmed with red. “I’ve been crying all over Poe.”

BB-8 whistled lowly: Why? Was she okay?

“I’m just overreacting,” Enne replied dismissively, trying for a brave smile.

“No you aren’t,” Poe contested, voice hard. He was suddenly angry; not angry with Enne but that she was being so disparaging of herself. “You have every reason to be scared. Your brother’s hurt you in the past and he might do it again.” He didn’t know when he strode across the room to her but he had closed the distance between them enough to grasp both her hands, forcing her to meet his eyes: to listen and believe him.

“But it’ll be different this time. You’ll have me there no matter what happens. We’re getting out of here together.” He managed to say the promise so firmly, so decisively, that he desperately hoped he’d be able to fulfill it.

BB-8 whistled again, now irritated: Aren’t you forgetting someone?

Chuckling, Poe amended, “And you’ll have BB-8, too.”

Enne smiled and Poe would have given anything to keep her smiling.

#

Rogo arrived with frightening punctuality at a quarter past seven.

Enne had managed to find more presentable—and clean—clothing for the formal dinner and even coerced BB-8 into a polishing. Poe was astonished at the ferocity of her obsessive attention to detail. She kept smoothing down his curls, attempting to lay his colic flat, or buffing at an invisible blemish on BB-8.

Yet, when Rogo knocked at the door, he was met with a serene Enne, Poe, and BB-8, all immaculate in appearance. Enne’s smile was practiced and well placed, her tight grasp on Poe’s hand the only outlet for her nerves.

“Oh, Miss Enne,” Rogo said in way of greeting. He sniffled for a moment, tears threatening to spill, and placed a composing hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, it’s just you’re just so beautiful, Miss Enne. It makes me want to…” Sniffling again, he pulled a handkerchief from his robes’ sleeve and dabbed at his eyes. “I’m sorry; I’m being silly.”

Placing a hand on his shoulder, Enne assured, “It’s alright, Mister Rogo.”

He gave her a wobbly smile. “Thank you. But, we should go. Master Hal’s waiting on us.”

With that, he was bustling down the hall again and the trio followed at a hurried pace. With her free hand, Enne picked up her skirts to keep pace. It was a quick descent down the grand stairs, BB-8 clunking down after them, and then Rogo was turning right and stopping at a looming twin set of doors. Glancing back over them, he nodded to Enne, before opening one of the doors and holding it.

Enne hesitated, staring through the doorway with fear riddling her expression and clouding her eyes. Poe leaned down, whispering, “Don’t worry, I’m right here.”

Acting on impulse, he pressed a kiss onto her cheek.

She flushed beautifully and offered him a weak smile. Then, with a steeling breath, she turned back and took the final step through, leading her—and Poe and BB-8—into the dining room.

Like the remainder of the mansion, the dining room was more of a long hall, dominated with a large table to land an X-wing on or accommodate thirty guests. Yet, only the head was occupied, two places set in addition on both sides, and the man seated there rose at their appearance.

Poe immediately distinguished Enne’s relation to the red haired man. He was pale with a straight, rounded nose, serious face, and gray stare. Yet, where Enne’s were often disapproving—sometimes teasing—his eyes were stormy, his eyebrows drawn low. With a jolt, his stomach dropping into his toes and abruptly very cold, Poe realized he recognized the young, severe man. He understood why Enne never told him her last name.

He was staring at Colonel Hal Hux.

It was impossible to distinguish whom—Enne or Poe—held tighter onto each other.

Standing, transfixed on Enne, one of those disapproving brows quirked as Hal asked: “What have you done to your hair?”

Her voice a quiet squeak, “Dyed it.”

He nodded, the movement stiff and jerky. Focus shifting to Poe and BB-8, Hal demanded, “And who are you?”

Saving both from response, Rogo replied: “Sir, this is Miss Enne’s husband, Poe Bey and his droid, BB-8.”

“Poe… _Bey_?” repeated Hal, both eyebrows now rising. “Any relation to Shara Bey, the Rebel alliance starpilot?”

Carefully maintaining his composure, Poe casually answered: “I’m sorry, who?”

Hal Hux didn’t reply, his stare pinning Poe to the marble where he stood.

Diffusing the tension as if he didn’t feel it, weighing down and crushing them all, Rogo said, “Please, if everyone would take their seats so we can start dinner? The food is getting cold.” Startled from stillness, Enne and Poe marched towards the table with heavy, reluctant steps as Rogo said, “Master BB-8, would you like to attend the door?”

Poe and Enne were deaf to BB-8’s whistle of agreement. Though, later, when they noticed the little droid’s strategic positioning next to an exit, they would be extremely grateful for it.

Poe released Enne’s hand to draw out a chair for her, pushing her in towards the table when she sat before going to his own chair. He made a purposeful, wide arch around Colonel Hux, as if fearing he might strike out at any moment.

After Poe situated himself, unfurling his cloth napkin and making a small business of arranging it _just so_ , Rogo appeared with a decanter of wine, filling their goblets. The butler scuttled away with the promise of hors d'oeuvre being served shortly.

Taking an experimental sip of wine, Hal— _Colonel_ —Hux started, “So, Enne. Why have you come crawling back finally?”

A muscle in Enne’s cheek jumped as she clenched her jaw. Letting out a calming, silent breath, she answered, “I’ve gotten married. I thought it would be wrong for you not to know. We _are_ family.”

“Hmm,” Hux replied, noncommittally. “I did think you’d tire of the wilderness before now but…”

Enne’s stare was sharp. “Did you know where I was?”

Colonel Hux’s tone was vapid. “Of course.”

Her jaw clenched tighter now, the only response, as Rogo returned to the dining room, carrying a platter of small beef pastries. “Mini beef pasties, an old favorite of Miss Enne’s,” Rogo announced as he placed the hors d'oeuvre platter in the blank wooden plain between the three place settings. “Be careful, the platter is much heavier than it looks.”

Seeing as Enne and her brother were locked in a fierce and silent battle of wills, Poe offered, “Thank you, Mister Rogo.”

The little butler bobbed his head before refreshing the Colonel’s wine glass and exiting again. It was a few beats after Rogo’s retreat—Poe wondering if he could slip out unnoticed after him—that Enne bit out: “ _How_ did you know, exactly?”

A polite smile. “Enne, dear, you can’t have forgotten that the Supreme Leader has eyes everywhere. You can’t escape the First Order.”

“You have _spies,_ you mean,” Enne returned, spitting out the word.

The Colonel took up the delicate silver tongs, placing two beef pasties onto his plate. “Would you like one?” he offered Enne.

She rolled her eyes.

Poe watched the exchange, eyebrows furrowed and wondering if Enne needed his assistance. If he was honest, he was in awe of her sheer nerve; he heard stories around the Resistance base of the cold intimidation of the Colonel—an intimidation Poe could now attest to—but Enne was entirely unperturbed. But then, she faced the Stormtroopers only to be panic afterwards.

She was simply remarkably talented at acting at confidence in the moment. Poe found himself thinking, briefly, she would make a brilliant spy for the Resistance.

“Why didn’t you show up? Come drag me back here if you knew?” Enne demanded.

“I knew you’d come back and look—” he waved a hand at her “—I was right.” He popped one of the beef pasties into his mouth, seeming to purposefully loudly crunch into it. After taking another sip of wine, he added, “Besides, I kept an eye on you. Made sure you didn’t stir up too much trouble.”

Despite herself, Enne repeated: “Trouble?”

“We couldn’t have the siblings of a colonel publically defying the First Order, now could we? Say, assisting those who spoke out against the Supreme Leader?” Hux questioned, a heavy meaning weighing down each word and Enne’s eyes grew wide as he spoke.

Poe didn’t need an explanation to guess Leo had provided help to the families who’s loved ones were dragged away by the Stormtroopers for speaking against the First Order’s tyrannical regime over Naboo.

Enne’s face was now entirely pale. “You had him killed? Right in front of me? It was _you?”_

“Yes, of course,” the Colonel replied quickly, as if it was obvious. “It _was_ unfortunate you had to watch but I did hope it’d bring you home sooner.”

Her mouth worked at words for a moment but, finding her voice stolen from her, Enne lips hung open, parted, and silent. She stared sightless down at the hors d'oeuvre platter, tears beginning to well. Poe desperately wanted to reach a hand out, comfort her, but then the Colonel’s attention had slid from his sister to him.

Watching Poe over the rim of his wine glass, Hux took a long draft. Poe mirrored him. As the Colonel returned the glass to the table, he questioned: “How did you like my latest campaign, Mister Bey? It was very kind of you and your pilots to provide me with such excellent base material.”

The wine in Poe’s mouth lost its taste and he struggled to swallow it over the mountainous lump forming in his throat. His eyes never wavered from Hux’s, never daring to show fear, as that stormy gray stare bored into him. Hux was daring Poe to contradict him, to play ignorant, and Poe knew the longer he hesitated, the less options he had.

But then movement from across the table caught his eye.

Both Poe and Hux turned to see Enne picking up the silver hors d'oeuvre platter—beef pasties falling to the table in a shower—before there was a flash and it was swung at Hux’s head. Platter and skull met with a resounding clatter. Abruptly, Hux slumped forward.

“What—?” Poe managed to exclaim. BB-8 echoed the sentiment.

Enne was already pushing her chair back, tossing her napkin aside, and she shouted, “ _Run_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a headcanon that Poe always uses his mom's surname as a little honor to her whenever he gives a false name.
> 
> Also, please note that this fic was written before the information of Hux's first name being Armitage was released (in that slim window of time between movie and that tidbit's release), so take 'Hal' as creative license!


	5. Fear to Tread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we continue, I'd like to address the slight AU/head canon: from what little we know about Hux's past, his dad was a Commandant at the Imperial Academy on Arkanis. Yet, I thought Hux's sense of old world politeness and tradition (somewhere "Fiddler on the Roof" starts playing) fit more of Naboo idealism so the idea is that the Hux family are native to Naboo but often travel around. Also, Daddy Brendol Hux is deceased by the time of this story.
> 
> Anyway, I'm rambling; please read on and enjoy!

Somewhere, in between flinging the dining room door open and dashing across the foyer, Poe grabbed Enne’s hand. She tugged him along, charging past the grand staircase and sending them crashing into a parlor, a pantry, and the kitchen. Enne’s skirts were hiked up above her knees as she muttered breathy curses at it. Poe forwent laughing to save his breath for running while BB-8 spun along at their heels, whistling in amusement.

“Hey Mister Rogo! Hi Missus Moray!” Enne called as they blew past the slight butler and a heavyset cook, giving her only enough time to squawk in response before Poe and Enne were through the backdoor. BB-8 whizzed by, his momentum gusting up the woman’s skirts, and it gave her a bright chirp of greeting.

When they slammed the door open, Poe nearly sputtered to a halt. Across a great stretch of emerald lawn was an airfield dotted with massive, beautifully constructed starships. His eyes alighted, widening, on a silvery sleek ship and his mouth popped open, gasping in awe. “Is that—?” he managed to get out before the air was swept from him, Enne dragging him along.

“Come on,” she commanded. “There are sentries up behind those two hedges. We can knock them out and get their blasters.” She motioned at two tall, decorative hedges immaculately trimmed.

“‘ _We_?’” repeated Poe, grinning.

“Okay, _you_ ,” she replied. He didn’t need to look at her to know she rolled her eyes.

They slowed their pace to a trot as they approached the hedges, Enne letting go of Poe’s hand to let him creep ahead. Reaching the hedges, he shimmed along and peered around cautiously at the corner. Turning one bright smile to Enne, he gave her a wink, before reaching and yanking the sentry around, biceps locked around the Trooper’s armored neck. Poe easily wrestled the blaster from the Trooper’s hands, using the butt of it to firmly knock him on the head.

By that time, the other sentry noticed the commotion and ordered through his— _his_?—helmet’s communicator: “Halt, citizen!”

But Poe ignored him, hurling the blaster so it spun—grip over barrel—and smacked into the Trooper. He toppled to the ground, equally as unconscious as his comrade.

“Huh,” was all Enne could say as she dashed over to join Poe, accepting one of the blasters. Poe went to collect the other one.

“I’ll that that as a compliment,” Poe laughed.

BB-8 chirped: you were showing off.

Poe shrugged, replying, “Desperate times, BB-8; desperate time.”

Grinning before starting off again, blaster tucked firmly in her arms, Enne led them over the remaining stretch of grass to the tarmac of the airfield.

“How long do you think we’ll have before Hux raises the alarm?” Poe asked as he and BB-8 doggedly followed.

Eyes narrowed on the starships, scanning them, Enne replied distractedly: “Five or ten minutes.”

Swiveling his head backward, BB-8 groaned: How about right now?

Enne and Poe checked over their shoulders, eyes widening at the sight. Spilling from the mansion like a small flood of white insects, was a platoon of Stormtroopers, all charging toward. Wearing a severely enraged expression, Hux was at their head, a little black smudge in the midst of the solid white.

“Shit; where’d they all come from?” Enne muttered.

Poe shook his head, staring at the Colonel. “How did he wake up so quickly?”

Neither of their questions were answered—BB-8 could only whistle shrilly in panic—and Enne turned forward once more, increasing speed. To Poe’s great delight, she headed for the blue and silver starship, the Naboo Personal Cruiser, explaining: “It’s Hal’s personal ship. He always has it ready to fly.”

No other words were exchanged between them as they pounded the hard cement of the tarmac, reaching the Cruiser just as the Troopers were passing the hedges.

Without the need for words, Poe sprung up the jet bridge, BB-8 close on his heels, to begin the pre-take off process. Enne stood at the mouth of the bridge. She had her blaster aimed for the oncoming platoon, the barrel trained on her brother.

Time slowed. Enne’s breaths in her ears were thunderous, heart thudding wildly and threatening to explode from her chest. She tried to take steadying breaths, tried to regain some composure, but her throat was clenching and the air became nearly impossible to inhale as the Troopers came ever closer. Their booted footsteps, once a distant thunder, rolled over her until it was deafening.

But, they were only just reaching the tarmac.

Just then, Poe came sprinting back down the jet bridge, the Cruiser humming to life overhead. “Enne, come on. We’re ready to go.”

“I’m not coming with you,” she replied, her blaster never wavering from her brother and the approaching platoon.

“ _What_? What do you mean? You can’t—”

“ _Go!_ You have to escape, while you still can,” Enne interrupted, glancing over her shoulder to pin him with a hard glare. Poe was uncomfortably reminded of Colonel Hux’s stare.

“And you’re coming with me,” Poe insisted.

“No! I know my brother; if I distract him long enough, he won’t give you any trouble. I’m the one he wants,” she replied, firmly turning back to the Troopers. They’d be upon them within a minute.

Poe closed the gap between them, grabbing hold of her elbow and turning her to face him properly. Enne blinked up at him, surprised at their proximity. “You planned this from the beginning, didn’t you?”

“Since I heard Hal was home,” Enne confirmed before gently pushing him back, towards the jet bridge. “I can’t go with you, anyway; I can’t just leave. Naboo is my home.”

“There’s nothing for you here!” argued Poe. They glowered at each other, both unmoving. Then she took a step, closing the marginal distance between them, and had a fistful of his tunic. She stretched upward on tiptoe. Pressing her lips against his, Enne kissed his arguments away, replacing it with a contented warmth.

When they broke apart a moment later—that fleeting kiss far too short for Poe’s liking—she whispered, face red, “For once in your life, Poe, do what I say.”

And then she running to meet the Troopers and her brother, one hand raised in surrender and the other hand discarding the blaster, sending it skidding across the cement.

Poe was paralyzed for an instant before BB-8 whistled at him, prompting him into action. Bounding back up the jet bridge, it closing behind him, he slid into the pilot’s chair, BB-8 already situated in the co-pilot chair, and switched on the anti-gravity. The Cruiser slowly rose from the ground but Poe paid little attention to their ascent, his eyes focused on the slowly shrinking airfield below.

Enne was completely surrounded by Troopers, her hands still raised, as she faced her brother. The siblings glared at one another as Hux’s mouth formed clipped words Poe could easily imagine. The Colonel was livid, pissed a hors d'oeuvre plate had gotten the better of him.

As BB-8 chirped: thrusters at half, Hux brought his pistol to eye level with his sister, steadying it just between her eyes. Breath catching in his throat, Poe leaned forward, hands pressed against the windshield, gasping out a strangled, “ _No_.”

He was deaf to BB-8 switching on full thrusters, unable to pry his eyes away as, with one blurring motion, the Colonel whipped the pistol around. It knocked into Enne, sending her crumpling. A roar, loud and agonizing—a keening—filled Poe’s ears as the Cruiser shot upwards, climbing steep and quick towards space.

It wasn’t until they broke Naboo’s atmosphere that Poe realized the roaring was his own hoarse, ragged shouting.


	6. How Are They to Know

A bright light, harsh and artificial, broke through the endless void of night Enne was floating threw, digging into her consciousness and dragging her roughly back to the waking world. Blinking her eyes open, it took a moment for her pupils to adjust to the bright fluorescent light overhead before she lifted her head, glancing around the barren room she found herself in.

She didn’t recognize the metal box—an interrogation room?—from the mansion and, from the faint hum of engines reverberating from every wall, she could only assume she was in a starship. Chewing at her lip, she briefly wondered at her being strapped to a metal chair at the ankle and wrists for her first time in space. She tugged experimentally at the restraints, frowning when she found them resolute. Dropping her head back against the metal headrest, she gusted out a sigh.

A hissing filled the silence and, when she looked back up, she found one of the panels of the metal box had slid aside—a hidden door, making escape nearly impossible—and, in the square light flooding in from the sterile hall outside, was her brother.

His black uniform was pristine, his expression hard, and Enne was disappointed to notice no signs of her whacking him with a platter. Seeming to read her mind, a sneer curled at his lips, drawing his straight nose harshly downward. Only in Enne’s dreams—dreams plagued with Leo’s screams for help, his pale face stained with crimson—did her brother wear that expression.

She never believed Leo when they were younger; never believed that there was a darkness, an evil lurking in Hal. Hal was her big brother, her protector. He would never allow any harm to befall her so, when he mentioned she enlist in the First Order, she could only assume he thought it best for her. She registered because why would her big brother ever wish harm on her? Why would he ever lead her astray?

Leo had shown her, distance clearing her eyes and mind, the evil of the First Order. Now, Hal, leering over her, showed her.

She had been wrong; so wrong. She realized the errors of her ways long before, fear clutching at her at the very thought of facing her past—facing Hal—but, here she was. Strapped to a chair and the terror was greater than she could have ever expected. Yet, when she spoke, her voice seemed to disconnect from her base reactions, a sensible part of her mind holding her steady. “Not very nice to lock your sister up,” she remarked.

“Not very nice to hit your brother with a plate, either,” countered Hal, his voice frigidly cool.

“It was a platter,” corrected Enne, practically. “Besides, you were being a spoiled brat. But then again, Mammy always said you were.”

Hal stopped short, undignified. “Mammy never said _I_ was the spoiled brat—” he interrupted himself then, his eyes narrowing, realizing Enne’s game. “Don’t bring Mother into this.”

Enne shrugged as best she could with the restraints. Her body was trembling at the implications of the interrogation chamber, of her brother looming over her. She saw the propaganda he produced, heard the tales of his cruelty. He wasn’t the Hal she remembered him to be, if he ever was, and she knew he would have no difficulties inflicting excruciating pain on her, his own sister.

Silence settled between them, Hal seething while Enne watched him carefully. She wondered if she brooded as fearsomely as Hal did.

“Are you planning on interrogating me?” Enne finally asked dryly, not able to bear the tension for a moment longer. Briefly, she realized she sounded like Poe and nearly grinned.

Hal’s gray eyes flicked up to her, studying those same eyes meeting his, before he graced her with an answer: “No.”

“Don’t want to get your hands dirty?” Enne asked, cocking her eyebrow. Her nerves, her fear, was screaming at her to hold her tongue—to think of survival—but she could never resist teasing Hal when he was moody. And, he was certainly moody now.

Hal snapped out, “No, _Enne,”_ before he sucked in a sharp breath, composing himself. Trying again, he said in a low, calm voice: “One of my colleagues will be in shortly to deal with you. I’ll be back later.”

“Wait, Hal—” Enne began, not knowing what she’d say if he stayed but he ignored her, regardless. Striding back out of the interrogation room as abruptly as he appeared, the metal panel slid into place behind him, rendering the door indistinguishable from the remainder of the walls.

Enne could only stare, swallowing hard over the lump in her throat.

#

The Naboo Cruiser broke through the cloud line of Bespin and, all at once, Cloud City appeared, floating on the horizon ahead. Poe held the Cruiser steady, flipping on the communicator and saying, “This is Black Leader Poe Dameron requesting permission to land.”

There was silence from the other end of the transmitter for a beat before a familiar voice buzzed through: “ _Poe Dameron?_ What the hell?”

Laughing, Poe exclaimed with a wide grin: “Merindo!”

“Hey, Poe; what the hell are you doing here?” Merindo’s voice returned, his voice slightly more friendly but still incredulous. Poe was glad to hear his old friend hadn’t changed in the last three years.

Poe said, “Well, how about you let me land and I can tell you all about it.”

A snort from the other end. “I’m guessing you want to talk to Dad, too?”

“Yeah, if it isn’t much trouble,” Poe replied.

 “Dameron, you’re always trouble,” Merindo replied dryly. The transmitter buzzed off and Poe took it as permission to land and began powering the thrusters down, preparing for landing.

BB-8 grumbled: I don’t like this. We should be going back to D’Qar.

Poe sighed heavily. They had been having a very circular argument for the past two hours. “I can’t, you know that. Lando might be the only one who can help.”

Whistling in announce, BB-8 countered: it’s not like the General would just leave her in Hux’s prison to rot.

“Yeah, but would she really let _me_ go after her?” Poe demanded and BB-8 didn’t offer a response, both knowing the answer was in the negative.

Poe could say confidently, without any danger of sounding egotistical, that he was the best pilot in the Resistance. He was too valuable to the General and the cause for him to risk a daring rescue plan of an unknown Naboo girl—whether she was the Colonel’s sister, the woman who saved his life multiple times, or not.

Both fell silent as the Cruiser soared closer to Cloud City, skimming low over the domed buildings, and slowing to a crawl as they glided easily to a landing pad at the Baron’s mansion. Hovering briefly, Poe and BB-8 looked out to see Merindo—lanky and ill tempered as always—standing next to a man, the very image of him aged sixty.

Poe grinned down at Lando Calrissian, Baron of Cloud City, and his second son, giving the two men a salute. Merindo returned it with a rude hand gesture while the Baron laughed.

After powering down the Cruiser, the engines humming into steady silence, Poe lowered the jet bridge and strode down to meet the two men, BB-8 following close behind.

“Poe Dameron!” the Baron exclaimed, offering a hand to Poe. The two shook, the Baron clapping him on the shoulder. “Good to have you back.”

“Dameron,” Merindo greeted with a single nod. “I’m surprised you’ve managed to keep BB-8 in one piece.”

BB-8 chattered: barely.

Merindo and Lando laughed while Poe feigned a scoff.

“Where’d you get the ride from, Dameron?” asked the Baron, staring up at the Cruiser with an appraising eye. He added, teasingly, “Didn’t steal it, did you?”

When Poe only grinned in reply, Merindo groaned. “Oh, hell. You _did,_ didn’t you?”

“There was a reason,” Poe defended quickly, returning Merindo’s good-natured smile before adding to the Baron, “I’d be willing to sell it for a good price.”

“Are you suggesting that the Baron Administer of Cloud City buy stolen goods?” demanded Lando, drawing himself up.

Poe shrugged. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.”

“Good, cause I’ll give thirty thousand credits for it,” Lando replied, his eyes turning back to the Cruiser.

“ _Only_ thirty thousand?” Poe returned.

In the same moment, Merindo grumbled, “Dad, Mom will murder you if you buy another starship.”

Winking conspiringly at Poe, Lando clasped a hand on his shoulder and guided him towards the mansion. “We’ll discuss business later. Now, what brings you to Bespin?”

“Well, I need a favor,” replied Poe. Merindo snorted but before either father or son could ask further, Poe added: “I need you to turn me over to the First Order.”

Merindo and Lando croaked, simultaneously: “ _What_?”

#

Enne could only stare as the minutes slithered by with arduous length, her apprehension steadily resolving into vague curiosity. The man, dressed in heavy black robes, stood before her, arms crossed over his broad chest. He was tall— _very tall_ —and she could feel his stare pinning her from his great height though an unyieldingly black helmet concealed his face.

The helmet, it seemed to her, was the most unnerving aspect of the man. It shone it some places, was dull and muted in others. It was rough, unfinished, and—as she blinked up at him—she could only assume the man under the mask was much the same.

Despite his hard eyes on her, Enne’s nerves settled the longer he remained immobile. He had been in a state of paralysis for quite some time. If it was Hal, she might have been brave enough to prod him with a teasing comment. But, she wasn’t brave; this man reminded her with unsettling clarity of the old legends, of the mythical evil Sith Lords. Force users capable of great evil, great pain.

The man spoke and Enne startled at the unexpected voice. “You’re the Colonel’s sister,” he said. With the helmet, his voice was lowered to an artificial gravelly quality and it sent a thread of fear shivering down her spine.

Though his comment left no room for answer, she still replied, “That’d be me.”

 He didn’t reply, only beginning to slowly circle her, examining her. Finally, he said, “Your brother wants me to get information out of you with any means necessary. Torture, if I must.”

“What information does he think I have?” Enne asked. If she pretended hard enough, she could almost deceive herself into believing this was a casual conversation; she wasn’t strapped to a metal torture device. The robed man’s tone was relaxed, though pitched low and unsettling, but the fear slowly clawing into her reminded her otherwise.

“I don’t know. Maybe you could tell me,” the man replied.

“Hal knows everything about me,” she spat. “He’s been keeping tabs on me.”

“He thinks you know something about the Resistance.” Curiously enough, the man mentioned Hal with the same loathing she felt for him.

“Then he’s wrong.” Enne restrained adding: _as always._

There was a long pause before the man asked: “Is he?”

And then she felt it, a pressure just behind her right ear. It felt as though finger was prodding her mind, careless of what it may damage and unrelenting. She grounded her teeth. “Yes,” she hissed out.

The prodding continued as the man asked, “What about the pilot?”

Poe—looking at her as he did just before he boarded the Cruiser, just after she kissed him—flashed through her mind. She desperately shoved it away but she wasn’t fast enough, he saw.

“Ah, yes, _him_ ,” the man intoned, amused. “The traitorous Resistance pilot you harbored. He’s fairly handsome, isn’t he?” Now Poe’s smile flashed through her mind and the man chuckled, the sound harsh and grating. “You have like on him, don’t you?”

Enne refused to answer.

“How very precious; how very _pathetic_.” He was close to her ear now and the prodding in her mind had turned to a crushing grip. It squeezed at her temples, making her gasp, and she thought surely her skull would collapse, cave in. “He could never love you. Look at you, you’re nothing; you’re worthless. The sister of a Colonel in the First Order, he’d execute you for suspicion of being a spy. Did you think nursing him back to health would _trick_ him?”

She was crying but she didn’t know when the tears began to fall. “ _Stop it_! Get out of my head!” she demanded in between pained gasps. Mentally, she pushed against him, shoving vainly at his pounding hold, but his clutches on her mind only tightened.

“You’ve only tricked yourself,” he added. His voice was inside her head, echoing and taking root into her thoughts, sinking in like a truth.

“No!” she roared, rallying her last ounces of mental strength and shoving roughly against him. The pain slipped, losing its hold.

There was a surprised silence before the man remarked, sounding pleased: “Good; very good.”

The mind probing returned to an insistent pressure somewhere behind her ears. She envisioned steal walls, thick and impregnable, surrounding her mind, enclosing her in safety. But, the robed man was applying pressure, was finding the faults in the walls, and was slowly beginning to deconstruct them. All the while, he said, “How impressive. Completely untrained but yet putting up some resistance. You _are_ Hux’s sister.”

She grounded her teeth, biting out, “I’m glad you’re _so pleased.”_

He chuckled and then her mental barriers came crumbling down, leaving her exposed and vulnerable and bare. Her head throbbed anew as his power probe into the same place, aggravating her tender, aching mind. A deep red bead, hot and fat, slid down from her temple.

Her mind was undone before him, entirely accessible for him to peruse at his leisure. Her cold childhood—tiptoeing around the great manor, afraid of a scolding from Mammy—her escape from Theed, Leo’s death, watching over Poe as he fought the fever. Every emotion from each long buried memory overcame her senses; tears welled at the sight of Leo, lying in the grass, hand outstretched in a final desperate plea for help. Fear roiled her stomach, loneliness settled over her, and worry clawed at her heart.

“Yes, embrace it. Let the pain and sadness consume you,” the man instructed, his voice low and almost soothing. “Succumb to it.” He was silent for a moment longer before saying: “It’s your fault Leo’s dead; he only tried to protect you. You let him go help those traitors’ families; you knew it was wrong, you knew he’d get hurt. And, you just let the Stormtroopers drag him outside. You didn’t fight against them hard enough; you could have broken their restraints. You could have _saved_ him but no, you wanted him to die.”

Enne sobbed hysterically, thrashing to turn her head away from the helmet, away from the pain, but there was no respite, no escape. She wailed, begging him to stop, to _please_ have mercy, but he was unmoved. His reply was simply: “Just tell me what you know about the Resistance and all this pain, all this agony will go away.”

“I—I—don’t—” she gasped out between hysterical sobs. She wanted desperately to curl in on herself, to clutch her stomach and cry and wretch until she was empty, until she was a husk. But her wrists remained pinned at her sides and she could only thrash in wild despair. Sucking in a deep breath, she flung her head up, screaming into the emotionless helmet: “ _I don’t know anything!_ ”

There was a pause, the man considering her. “Yes, you don’t, do you?” he agreed and, abruptly, the pain stopped. He swept out of the interrogation room without a further word, ignoring her wails and pleading to be released.

#

Lando and Merindo ushered Poe into an airy lounge, much of one curved wall devoted to a sweeping window overlooking the sprawling city. The setting sun caught on the jungle of glass, painting Cloud City in fiery orange.

Poe paid little attention to the view, taking the lounge chair Lando indicated, BB-8 parking itself by his side. “Where’s Chance?” inquired Poe after a moment, Lando sending a servant to fetch three fozbeers.

It seemed only polite to inquire; though Poe wasn’t nearly as well acquainted with Chance—or Lando Junior—as he was with Merindo, Chance was still a loyal friend to the Resistance, as all of the Baron’s family was. Of course, not too publically loyal—not to gain the suspicion of the First Order, for the time being—otherwise Poe’s half baked rescue plan would never work.

“He’s with Mom on Coruscant. She’s visiting a friend and insisted Chance come along. Apparently her friend has an eligible, _unmarried_ daughter,” Merindo replied, settling himself down into the chair perpendicular to Poe.

Lando, sitting parallel to Poe, added, “Tendra is absolutely determined to marry Chance off before the end of the year. She thinks thirty-five’s too old to still be single.”

BB-8 whistled sympathetically: Poor Chance.

“Don’t feel too bad for him,” Merindo muttered. “A wife just might settle him down.”

“He just needs someone who can stand his energy for more than five minutes,” added Lando with a bark of laughter. It was then the servant returned with the fozbeers and, after popping the lids off and toasting the drink, the three settled back to discuss business. Lando asked, “So, what is this favor _exactly?”_

“First, I want to hear how the _hell_ you’re alive,” Merindo interrupted before Poe could go farther than clearing his throat.

Poe smiled sheepishly. “What did you hear?”

“Leia sent out a message to all Resistance sympathizers that you had to make an emergency landing on Naboo. She wanted us to keep a look out for you,” Lando explained. It took a moment for Poe to realize he meant the General when he said ‘Leia.’ “You’ve been missing for nearly a week; they probably assume you’re dead.”

“I’m not, as you can see,” Poe replied, holding out his hands in a gesture to himself. He thought briefly of Vore, who—unlike him—wasn’t around to joke about nearly dying. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he shoved the thought aside and continued: “But, I nearly was. See, when I was going to make a landing, my engine was shot out and I had only just entered Naboo’s atmosphere so BB-8 and I evacuated before it exploded into a fireball. Somehow, shrapnel breeched the cockpit while I was still in the X-wing and my leg got cut pretty badly.”

At the mention of his leg, he realized he’d have to get it reset. Enne said no physical exertion, which would exclude running for his life.

“So you’re a starpilot without a starfighter,” Merindo observed when Poe paused to take a sip of fozbeer.

After Poe nodded in grim confirmation, Lando mentioned: “You know, there’s this guy here, in Cloud City, who’s got this beautiful orange and black X-wing. Don’t really know _how_ he has it—didn’t really want to ask, you know?—but he might be willing to do a swap for the Cruiser.”

“Really? A customized X-wing?” Poe asked, leaning forward in interest.

BB-8 trilled: orange’s my favorite color.

“Mine too, bud,” Poe agreed, thoughtfully.

“I’ll talk to him,” Lando replied, nodding. "I probably shouldn't buy another ship. Tendra  _would_ murder me."

“ _Anyway,”_ Merindo cut in, obviously resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “What happened after you ejected from the X-wing?”

Poe briefly grinned at Merindo before continuing: “My chute got stuck in a tree and I was just dangling twenty feet in the air. BB-8 couldn’t reach me so I asked him to go find someone who could help.”

Lando whistled lowly. “Risky.”

 “I know, not exactly _ideal,_ but BB-8 did find someone and probably the best someone on Naboo,” Poe said. He told the two about Enne, how she patched up his leg and helped him through the fever. Of how she helped him escape from Stormtroopers, taking him and BB-8 to Theed. He described the First Order’s tyrannical rule on Naboo, his dinner with the Colonel, and Enne’s valor in assisting their final escape.

Briefly, he debated on whether to omit her relation to Colonel Hux but knew, if he was going to ask them to take a great risk for him, they deserved the whole truth.

When Poe concluded his tale, he added, “I can’t just leave her to her brother. She’s probably being tortured for information on me or the Resistance. Or, just tortured for the Colonel’s own sick amusement.”

He stared hopefully, entreatingly at Lando and Merindo but was only met with thoughtful frowns. BB-8 whistled, prompting them for reply.

Merindo was the first to speak, saying, “Well, shit.”

Poe thought it was a very accurate summary.

“Agreed,” Lando said. “But of course we’ll help, Poe. You know us Calrissian men: we can’t resist rescuing a damsel in distress.”

“Well, Enne _is_ in distress but I don’t think I’d call her a ‘damsel,’” Poe replied, grinning widely.

“You’re probably right,” Lando said, suddenly thoughtful. “But that’s what you want; a _woman_ not a damsel.”

Unable to resist, Merindo rolled his eyes. “ _Dad.”_

Ignoring his son, Lando asked, “What exactly are you wanting us to do?”

#

Poe knew he shouldn’t have let Lando talk him into the idea. He knew the General would be livid with him—after the initial relief of seeing him alive, of course—but then Merindo joined in and he agreed under their combined pressure. They herded him off to a guest room, setting him at a hologram table, before fleeing, taking BB-8 with them. The traitors left him alone to face General Organa.

She answered his call immediately—from her surroundings, it appeared she was somewhere on Hosnian Prime, probably on diplomatic business—and, after blinking away tears, she demanded: “What are you doing on Bespin? When are you coming back?”

“I’ll be back soon,” Poe replied, evasively.

“ _Soon?_ Why not _now_?” she demanded, eyebrows furrowing.

“General Hux captured this woman I met on Naboo, Enne, and—”

“You can’t go gallivanting around the galaxy, rescuing every girl the First Order captures!” raged General Organa.

A lesser man would have shrunk in the face of the General’s furious glare. But Poe only drew himself up, straightening. Without hesitation, he countered, “If I was anyone else, would you let me do it?”

The General grumbled for a moment. She sputtered out: “I—yes—but—” she took a deep breath, gaining mastery over her outrage and started again: “Yes, but Poe, you’re the _best_ pilot in the Resistance. It’s just too dangerous.”

Poe shook his head. “No; I’m just a pilot. I may not have a sense of self preservation like everyone else and take more risks, but I’m still just a pilot.” He paused, meeting the General’s hard stare. Swallowing hard, he added: “And she’s the woman who saved my life. Four times.”

Her eyebrows rose faintly. “Four?” she repeated.

Poe nodded, ticking off his fingers as he said, “She cut me down from a tree, healed my leg, hid me from Stormtroopers, _and_ got me off Naboo. I think I owe her at least one rescue.”

General Organa’s mouth was a hard line, clearly displeased, but then she was asking: “You’d just go off and save her even if I said no, wouldn’t you?”

Opening his mouth to deny it, the General gave him a critical look, and he gusted out a laugh. Grinning, he shrugged casually. “Yeah, probably.”

Seemingly despite herself, the General smiled, replying, “You really are _stupidly_ daring, aren’t you?”

Poe agreed readily: “ _Stupidly_.”

#

It was sometime later—by her very confused guess, it was early the next morning—the panel door of her interrogation room slid open and her brother stepped in. Barely able to lift her head to look at him, she realized how grateful she was for it being Hal, as raging and brooding as he was, and not the man in black robes. She still shook with exhausted agony from his mental scouring. Her breathing came in ragged, feeble gasps.

Hal smiled down at her. “Ren certainly did very nice work with you.”

“Ren?” she managed to repeat.

“Kylo Ren, your visitor last night,” answered Hal, his smile stretching into a toothy gloat. She desperately wished her hands were free to slap it off his face. But then, even if she wasn’t restrained, she doubted she had enough strength to lift her hand.

When she made no reply, he said, pacing around her, “We’ve received news that you may find interesting.” Another pause but Enne couldn’t summon the strength to prompt him. Obligingly, Hal continued, “Your little Resistance pilot, Poe Bey, has been apprehended. We put out a bounty on him, you see. He’s being brought in as we speak. Should be here within an hour or so.”

Enne couldn’t even narrow her eyes into a glare, her focus entirely devoted to holding her head up. Hal laughed and added, “He didn’t get very far before he was caught. Not a very good pilot, is he?” She seethed. Her tongue was too thick to form a proper retort as he continued, “They say he’s the best pilot in the Resistance but he’s just pathetic, isn’t he? All that bravado, all that confidence? He’s just a common pilot.” Hal was very close to Enne’s face now, his leering smile just above her.

Her senses, her very soul, screamed at the untruth. She acknowledged Poe was overconfidence, given to bravado—Hal knew it from the robed man, Kylo, and his digging into her mind—and, underneath, he _was_ just a pilot. But then, despite all his teasing, his daring, his heroics, he was just a man talented at flying a starfighter. It was the best part about him.

Gathering her strength, she spat a shower of saliva up onto his face and bit out, “ _Shut up, Hal_.”

Faster than she could register, he brought his gloved hand up with blurring reflexes, smacking Enne. She slumped back against the metal chair, gasping hard at the sting.

He drew away from her, extracting a handkerchief from his uniform jacket and carefully dabbed at the saliva. After a moment, he pocketed the handkerchief, saying, “He’s going to be here in an hour and _you’re_ going to watch me kill him.”


	7. Heart Above My Head

A slap, sharp and hard and stinging, jerked her eyes open.

“I was awake, you brat,” Enne bit out, glaring up at her brother. She had listened to the panel door slide open and the approach of his heavy footsteps. Strength slowly returning, she couldn’t be bothered to pry her eyelids apart, but now she scowled up at his overly pleased grin.

She wondered if he had always been so fond of hitting people. Mammy would have cured him of it in an instant if she were still alive.

“Didn’t look like it,” Hal replied, his voice distant and supremely uninterested. “Come along, rouse yourself. We have to greet our guest.” Hal turned away, glancing out into the hall, expectantly.

When silence settled, Enne wriggled against her wrist restraints, jangling them, and said, “I’m still strapped into this chair.” Hal spared her a glare but didn’t reply. A few moments later, a trio of Stormtroopers appeared, two of them with blasters and one with manacles. To no one in particular, Enne remarked, “Oh how lovely, new bracelets.”

“I would kindly suggest you remain silent, dear sister. Your behavior will be _very_ important,” Hal said then, his tone frigidly polite, and his fixed stormy eyes—holding her own gaze hostage—sent cold tremors through her. She tightened her lips, gulping, and was complacent as one of the Stormtroopers released her from the metal chair and outfitted her wrists with the manacles.

Hal, infamous Colonel Hux of the First Order, did not need to elaborate: she perfectly understood her docile behavior would equate to less pain for Poe.

Her heart thudded wildly, scaling upward and into her throat. She swallowed heavily, averting her eyes from her brother. She could see Poe’s death clearly, reflecting back in his eyes with a malevolent eagerness.

The Trooper pulled her bodily and roughly out of the chair, holding her upright. She swayed heavily on her feet, her legs too thin, too weak, like her knees would buckle with the slightest pressure; like her shins would snap in two. Her legs shook and she shook with them, leaning heavily against the Trooper. Sweat beaded at her brow, her breath ragged.

She knew it was the after effects of the torture, of the pain; nothing was _physically_ wrong with her but everything was wrong _mentally._

And, when she looked back to Hal, she still saw the anticipating for Poe’s death. She wanted to rage, launch herself on her brother—or the man who looked like her brother—but she could only pant against the Trooper. Only focus on keeping her legs from folding underneath her. She was pathetic, just like the robed man, Kylo Ren, said. After a moment—she could feel Hal’s burning over every inch of her, inspecting her, ensuring she was sufficiently wretched—Hal strode from the interrogation room— _the torture chamber,_ she amended mentally—with the Troopers falling in behind him.

There was little difference between the hall outside and her room; both were blank metal, sterile and cast in coldly artificial light. The hall was long and so was the one after the next one. And the one after the _next_ one _._ Each hall was an oblivion, stretching into the horizon for an exhausting distance, and Enne nearly fainted at the sight of yet another corridor, running away from them, whenever they rounded a corner. Yet, she focused her eyes downward, careful to put one foot in front of the other. Careful to swallow down the nausea threatening to rise.

When her footsteps failed, when she tripped, when her knees weakened, she fell against the Trooper entirely and found three pairs of hands hauling her upright once more.

“Keep her moving,” Hal would say every time.

She wanted to bit out a sarcastic thanks for his concern but she was panting and had no breath to spare.

Finally, they arrived at a set of double doors and, pacing impatiently before them, was Kylo Ren. Turning his helmeted head at their approaching steps, watching silently as Enne nearly collapsed entirely, he folded his arms across his broad chest. “Hux,” he intoned, voice gravelly in its lowness, when Hal was nearly upon him. “You’re late.”

“Pardon me, it seems the prisoner was tortured beyond the point of _walking,_ Ren,” Hux replied, snippily. Enne wondered if either of them would mention it was Hal who ordered her torture. No one did. She consoled herself with noting the apparent animosity crackling between the Colonel and Kylo Ren, Hal glaring up at the unblinking helmet.

Enne was suddenly reminded of Hal’s love for staring contests when they were little. He was so stubborn, he always won—or tricked Leo and Enne into blinking. She shoved aside the thought.

Turning away from the other stiffly, Hal barely repressing his shaking rage, the double doors slid open before Ren and the Colonel with a soft hiss, revealing a giant hanger. Prodded forward by a blaster barrel to the back, Enne shuffled in after Ren and her brother. She briefly tried to crane her head up and back, searching for the ceiling far overhead, but was overcome with nausea. Stomach acid burning up her throat, scorching her nostrils, she swallowed heavily and hastily dropped her head down.

She and the three Troopers followed Ren and Hal into the center of the hangar, both men standing in the attitude of expectant anticipation. The robed man was fidgeting at a silver tube—Enne could only wonder if it was hilt of a lightsaber—tucked into his belt while Hal clasped his gloved hands behind his back.

Enne took the opportunity to study the TIEs, all parked neatly and orderly. There weren’t many armed Troopers around—only the ones guarding her—only mechanics and technicians, running maintenance checks on the starfighters. Whoever Ren and Hal were expecting, whoever was bringing Poe in, must be no threat to the First Order.

The longer Enne stood, the heavier she swayed, and it seemed she had been standing for entirety. Her calf muscles burned for respite, desperately pleading to sit down, to rest, but neither of the black clothed men nor the Troopers acknowledged her heavy lurches. She was ignored in favor of staring out into the endless void of the galaxy, dotted with stars.

And there was hum, the low warning of an approaching starship, and soon a sleek copper cruiser came into view, skimming low and aimed for the hangar’s mouth. Its entrance was greeted with silence, neither men moving or showing any signs of noticing the ship whatsoever, and it hovered above the metal landing pad for a breathless moment—a moment that, to Enne, seemed to be years long—before parking gently, gracefully.

After: inactivity for a handful of minutes. The starship—Enne didn’t recognize the model but then she only had ever seen Naboo cruisers and freighters—emitted contented whirring as the engines cooled from flight. Curiously, they did not hum into silence, powered off. Apparently, whoever piloted the ship expected this to be a quick business transaction.

Another minute ticked by with unnatural stillness.

Then, the jet bridge lowered slowly and Enne wanted nothing more than to yank it down, to charge aboard, and free Poe; to fling her arms around him and never let go. She blinked, pink beginning to tint her cheeks, and hurriedly pushed aside the thought. She was stupid to be thinking such things; life and death were far more important than her overly emotional daydreams.

With the bridge lowered, three pairs of footsteps preceded the appearance of three men, two of whom escorted Poe. She didn’t recognize them. The older man of the strangers was limber, wearing fine clothing and bearing himself with undeniable importance. Meanwhile, the younger man sent a glower to everything he set his eyes on—including the older man who was, most certainly, his father. But Enne had little attention for the two men, only focused on Poe himself.

He wore the same clothing from their dinner with Hal just the night before—she didn’t pause to marvel at the events of the past twelve hours—and his face was smudged, his hair tussled, yet he appeared largely unharmed.

She could have cried in relief.

But then, she frowned: Where was BB-8?

#

“We’ve almost reached the _Finalizer,”_ Merindo announced into the near silence inside the Cruiser.

The three men allowed silence to fall again. Lando stared over at Poe, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his vest, purposefully attempting to hide his fingers’ irate fidgeting. “Are you sure about this?” Lando questioned.

Glancing up at him, startled, Poe nodded without hesitation. “Yes, of course.”

“He better be sure because there’s no going back now,” Merindo mumbled as the Cruiser eased out of hyperspace. Outside, the majority of their view was dominated by the massiveness of a First Order _Resurgent-_ class Star Destroyer. “ _Shit_ ,” Merindo breathed.

Lando and Poe echoed the sentiment.

The trio was silent as Merindo requested permission to land and brought the Cruiser level with the hangar. Poe’s eyes narrowed, focusing on the white and black smudges—people, tiny in comparison to the docked TIE fighters and the hangar itself—as they steadily grew larger with the Cruiser’s approach. Subconsciously, he reached out his hand for BB-8’s head, wanting to reassure the droid as much as himself. BB-8 whirred in surprise, glancing up as Poe looked down.

Poe imagined BB-8 smiling reassuringly as the droid chirped: don’t worry, Poe. She’ll be okay.

Turning to look up again, the Cruiser had just entered the hangar and he could finally distinguish Enne’s black jacket from the black uniforms of Colonel Hux and Kylo Ren—the young, Darth Vader imitator Merindo couldn’t stop laughing about. Yet, to Poe, her black had a glow, an irresistible draw. She held herself gingerly, her curls tangled and knotted, but she still caught his eye, tugged a smile onto his face.

            He was deaf to Merindo’s quiet, constant stream of linked expletives—some rather creative—and Lando’s declaration: “I am getting _way_ too old for his shit.” He didn’t notice when the Cruiser landed, touched down with a gentle shudder; he was far too devoted to staring at Enne and fervently hoping she was all right, that he wasn’t too late.

Merindo switched the thrusters to standby, expecting a hasty departure, and stood from the pilot’s chair. He briefly patted the blaster hostler at his hip—reassuring himself it was still there—before saying, “Time to get your bracelets on, Poe.”

Tearing his eyes away from Enne through the front windshield, Poe glanced up to see Merindo standing next to him, offering him the bracelet that generated a hologram of handcuffs. Offering his wrists, Poe said, “Let’s hope this works.”

Mirroring his son as he checked his blaster, Lando asked rhetorically, “Are you talking about the handcuffs or the entire plan?”

Both Poe and Merindo ignored him, the handcuffs in place. It was a light pressure on his wrists, easy to break when the time came but not enough for the illusion to disintegrate with an accidental, misplaced movement.

BB-8 whistled: Cool.

“Oh the joys of technology,” Merindo intoned, stepping back to stare critically down at the hologram, as if daring it not work.

Standing with father and son, Poe pulled on a brave, toothy grin. “Everyone know the plan?”

BB-8 grumbled: _What_ plan?

In the same moment Lando said, “Yeah. Your blaster set to stun?”

Killing any of the Troopers or the commanders— _especially_ the commanders—would bring the might of the First Order crashing down on Cloud City. Yet, it was unlikely any repercussions, beyond stricter trade policies, could come from a couple Stormtroopers and young officers being stunned during the rescuing of an insignificant Naboo girl. The First Order’s ‘Supreme Leader’ would heel the Colonel and Ren in from acting in rash retaliation; he knew how to discipline his pets.

Ignoring BB-8, Poe replied, “On it.” He turned to show the holster strapped to his back, where it’d be hidden from view of the Stormtroopers, the Colonel, and Kylo Ren.

“Good.” Lando nodded before grasping Poe’s shoulder, looking him in the eyes. “Poe, I just wanted to know before we do this, you’re fucking insane.”

Poe tried to nod back seriously. Lando’s mouth twitched and then all three of them were smiling, laughing, and slapping each other’s backs. It was probably adrenaline—or maybe knowing this wasn’t nearly the most dangerous thing any of the three had ever done—but any nerves Poe had evaporated. He was left only with determined resolve.

BB-8 only shook its little spherical head at them, muttering in low beeps: Poe’s not the only insane one.

When the three sober, Poe nodded singularly. “Let’s do some rescuing.” He paused before adding, his grin reappearing, “And fuck shit up.”

“Hell yeah,” Merindo agreed, going to the jet bridge and hitting the release, the steel walk slowly lowering.

Turning to BB-8, Poe gave it a bright smile. “Good luck, bud.”

BB-8, parking itself at the pilot’s chair and reeling out its hand extension towards the firing controls, replied: You too. And Poe?

“Yeah?”

Poe imagined BB-8 grinning as it chirped: Go get your girl.

Smiling widely, his crazy mission finally given BB-8’s blessing, Poe replied, “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

“Poe, c’mon,” Merindo muttered and Poe turned back to his two human companions.

The jet bridge had touched down on the metal floor below. Without allowing for hesitation, the trio trooped down, Poe situated between Merindo and Lando, marching in formation to meet the small First Order delegation. Poe focused on Enne, her appearance more battered and worn at closer proximity.

Rage lurched in his stomach, clawing up his throat, and he counted to ten before breathing out a long sigh. Losing his temper and strangling Enne’s brother was most certainly _not_ in the plan.

He continued to stare at her, pleased to see her happiness—tinged rightfully with worry—at the sight of him. Smiling would give him away but his mind scrambled for some sign to reassure her. But his thoughts offered nothing, only able to volley between the plan and just absorbing the sight of her alive.

And, under the fatigue, he still saw her as the sensible, stubborn in the wilderness—endlessly frustrating and mystifying. But somewhere, in between waking up in her cabin and now, he realized he begun to look at her not as a stranger or a friend but with a sense of possession, as _his._ It was stupid to be thinking it at that moment, when he was about to outwit a First Order Colonel and Sith Lord, hoping to live to tell the tale, but the thought appeared and took root in his mind on its own accord.

He let it.

Then, Merindo and Lando stopped short on either side and Poe hurried to do the same. Poe’s eyes shifted between Kylo Ren, immobile and unspeaking, and Colonel Hal Hux, his eyes narrowed into a fierce glare. Lando met Hux’s scowl evenly while Merindo kept careful watch on Kylo Ren and his lightsaber hilt.

Poe set his jaw, pulling on a frustrated glower. He was determined to play the part of prisoner, all the while itching to break the hologram and grab for his blaster. His first target was the Trooper roughly holding Enne.

“Lando Calrissian,” greeted the Colonel. His stormy eyes flicked to Poe. “And the outlaw, Poe Bey.” Hux’s chillily, polite smile turned malicious as he leered. “Weren’t able to run very far, were— ”

“Let’s skip the dramatics, Hux,” interrupted Lando. “Here’s your man now where’s the bounty.”

Hux glared but still turned his head to one of the Troopers, nodding sharply in the direction of Lando. Holding his blaster under an armpit, the Trooper unclipped a leather pouch from its belt, stepping forward to place it in Lando’s outstretched palm.

There was a single instant, every person’s eyes solely focused on the pouch of ten thousand credits—an almost flattering sum for Poe—and all the air seemed to be sucked from the hangar. In the Cruiser, BB-8 leaned forward, lens narrowing on the coin pouch, primed for the exact instant it landed in Lando’s hand. Poe’s arm muscles bunched, ready to rip apart the hologram cuffs. Merindo’s fingers fidgeted marginally towards his blaster.

There was a soft clink, pouch connecting with palm, and the world abruptly burst into flames.

The Cruiser was firing a heavy barrage of blasts, Merindo had his pistol out and shot Kylo Ren at nearly point blank range, and Poe’s bracelet went flying off as he ripped his wrists apart with—admittedly—unnecessary force. Lando had the coin pouch tucked away securely and his own pistol in hand.

" _What_ —?” Hux managed to squawk as Poe drew his pistol, shooting down the Trooper holding Enne before turning the blaster to the Colonel.

Before Poe could pull the trigger, Merindo shot Hux between the eyes, freezing the Colonel’s shocked expression as he pitched backwards, body floundering with the electric jolts coursing through him. “That’s right; writhe little man,” Merindo muttered.

Poe didn’t reply, turning hurriedly back to Enne and finding she had collapsed with the Trooper who held her, sprawled atop the paralyzed man.

“Did she faint?” Lando asked, distractedly as he kept his pistol at the ready, leveled for the large double doors leading into the remainder of the Star Destroyer in anticipation of company .

“No, I just decided a nap might be nice,” Enne replied, voice crackling with dryness.

Poe grinned widely and dashed to her side. Behind him, Merindo and Lando exchanged looks, beginning to snicker together.

“Are you okay?” Poe asked, kneeling down at her side. Overhead, BB-8 continued raining fire onto the TIEs in the hangar and there was a loud explosion, streamers of fire showering them.

Ducking his head, huddling over Enne to protect her, he heard her reply under the destruction, “I’ll recover but my leg muscles are weak.”

“No problem; can you get your arms around my neck?”

In reply, her arms linked around his bowed neck. Resisting the urge to grin brightly, Poe returned his blaster to its hostler, gathering Enne in his arms. He cradled her closely to her chest, tactfully not betraying his surprise at her weight, and scooped her off the ground. He swallowed involuntarily when her fingers buried into his curls.

Turning back to Lando and Merindo, making for the Cruiser hastily, Poe said, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Merindo replied.

An instance later, streams of blasts came surging past and Lando shouted: “The party’s here!”

“This is the opposite of a party!” snapped Merindo, returning fire over his shoulder.

For the second time in less than twelve hours, Poe was running for his life.

Red blasts rocketed past, barely missing Poe, as Lando and Merindo paused to reply with their own blasts. The hard metal between them and the Cruiser seemed to stretch into yards, acres, miles. There was a searing pain just to the right of Poe’s back, heat shooting up his spin, and he hissed harshly.

Staring up at him, Enne asked, “Poe, are you okay? Were you hit?”

He didn’t reply, his focus entirely devoted to running for the jet bridge and he was _almost there._ Another five steps and she’d be safe. Another five steps and they would be free of Colonel Hux. He lunged up the bridge and, just as he was nearly onboard, a fiery white pain stung at his right calf, more burning and hot and agonizing than his back. He hissed harshly, limping the remainder of the way inside and depositing himself and Enne onto the bench.

“What’s the matter? You’ve been hit, haven’t you?” demanded Enne, pulling herself off of Poe and propping herself up. His injuries were immediately forthcoming, his back lathered with blood and his pants’ right leg slick with red. Frowning, she muttered, “I thought I said not to exert your right leg.”

Despite himself, Poe laughed.

Just then, Merindo and Lando came charging aboard. Lando switched on the jet bridge hydraulics as Merindo dove for the pilot’s chair, BB-8 barely dodging out of his way. The Cruiser was aloft, thrusters roaring, just as the bridge shut, just as the hangar was swarming with Stormtroopers, just as Kylo Ren and Colonel Hux were reviving.

“And that’s all for now folks,” Merindo narrated as he steered the Cruiser into space and immediately lurched them into hyperdrive.

In the silence that immediately followed, they all looked at each other, grinning in mirrored relief. BB-8 rolled over to lean heavily against Enne’s leg, tweeting its pleased greeting. Smiling, she patted his head. And then, Poe hissed sharply in pain.


	8. Let This Fool Rush In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read the final chapter of this little tale, I wanted to take a moment to thank every single person for commenting, leaving kudos, or simply reading! It makes me unspeakably happy there are other hopeless romantics looking out for our little Poe!

At Enne’s insistence, Poe was ushered to a healing room the moment they disembarked the Cruiser in Cloud City. By the time Merindo and Lando caught up with Poe, Enne, and BB-8, Enne had helped tug Poe’s tunic off and ripped away the lower half of his pant leg. Poe, perched on the examination table, was hunched, bracing his elbows on his knees, wincing occasionally as Enne cleaned the wounds. Thankfully, both wounds were shallow and stopped spurting while on the Cruiser.

Lando would have a steep cleaning bill, though.

“This a bad time?” Lando asked teasingly as he entered the room with Merindo, casting a meaningful look between Enne and Poe’s bare chest.

“No, just come on in and make yourself comfy,” Poe returned, dryly.

Enne snorted but ordered, “Hold still.” Obediently, Poe stilled entirely and Lando smirked, dropping into one of the chairs. Merindo remained standing, arms crossed and stationed at the door.

“You know, we _do_ have healers, Miss Enne,” Merindo spoke up after a moment.

“Of course you do,” replied Enne shortly, making it clear she had no interest in discussing the topic. Lando chuckled. The four humans and one droid fell into companionable silence as Enne worked, Merindo and Lando watching with mesmerized interest as Enne cleaned Poe’s blast wounds, applying a salve she rummaged out from one of the room’s cupboards.

After she bandaged him up, she said, “We’ll have to find you a new shirt and pants. And, please, don’t do anything to strain yourself this time.”

Poe grinned. “You’re the one who got kidnapped by Colonel Hux. I had to come save you.” She rolled her eyes and Poe continued, “What about my previous injury?”

“Thankfully, it wasn’t reopened from all your stupid daringness,” she replied. Poe raised his eyebrows faintly, grinning at her brightly and she flushed under his eyes.

“ _Daringness,”_ repeated Lando.

Glancing at him, Enne smiled widely and gave him a conspiring wink.

“That wasn’t subtle at all,” pointed out Merindo and, though it wasn’t funny, they laughed. They laughed for being alive. They laughed in relief. They laughed to laugh.

And then Enne’s giggles turned heavy, pained. He eyes streamed and she hastily wiped at them, flushing vividly with embarrassment. Voice shaking with the sudden, overwhelming crush of emotions, she apologized, “I’m sorry. I guess everything is just kind of hitting me all at once.” BB-8 leaned against her leg, comfortingly, and she rubbed its head affectionately. “I just want thank you all for rescuing me. I…I don’t really know…”

“No thanks needed,” Merindo interrupted decisively.

Enne glanced up from the droid, shyly looking to Lando, Merindo, and, finally, Poe. He was staring at her oddly—an oddness that Enne easily identified but was too frightened, too afraid of being mistaken, to name—and then he was taking her hand. He threaded their fingers together, pulling her to sit beside him.

Lando spoke into the ensuing silence: “Poe, I just got a reply from my friend and he’s agreed to trade for the—”

“ _Dad_ ,” Merindo interrupted, dryly. Father and son exchanged looks, staring briefly at Poe and Enne—entirely absorbed with one another—and Lando rose, hurrying from the room. Merindo followed, calling quietly, “Come on, BB-8.”

The droid whistled conspiringly, following Merindo out. Neither Poe nor Enne noticed their departure or heard the door close behind them. Enne was somewhere far beyond her understanding, willingly drowning in Poe’s attention, and the breath was entirely stolen from her lungs. Perhaps, she had forgotten how to breathe entirely.

They were both still dirtied, tussled, and matching blotches of purple fatigue underline their eyes, but all Enne knew was the warmth of his hands and, when he pulled her into his arms, she willingly melted, breathing him in.

#

Noon found both Enne and Poe washed, dirty clothing exchanged for fine blue clothing on the insistence of Lando. Enne had declared her draping sleeveless gown, cinched at the waist and turning sheer as it tumbled to the floor, ridiculous. Poe was sure it was the best thing he had ever seen.

He didn’t even pretend to hide his wide grin from Lando, despite the teasing innuendos.

Lando led a processional of servants into lounge BB-8, Poe, and Enne had claimed after evacuating the healing room. The staff left in their wake pitchers of chilled lemonade, platters of sandwiches and sliced, fried crisps, ripened fruits, and fresh vegetables. After Enne and Poe recovered from their reverent shock, Lando showered compliments on Enne, sending knowing winks to Poe, before saying, “Poe, my friend’s been up this morning to look at the Naboo Cruiser and he wants it. He also wants you to come look at the X-wing today, if possible.”

“Sure, if I’m allowed,” Poe agreed, glancing to Enne, questioningly.

Grinning while rolling her eyes toward the ceiling, Enne replied, “Yes, you’re allowed.”

"Ah, my lady is kind,” declared Poe theatrically, laughing as Enne playfully swatted his shoulder.

“Shut up, Poe,” she grumbled. BB-8 chimed its agreement.

“Unbelievable,” Poe groaned, shaking his head mournfully. “Everyone has betrayed me.”

Lando, watching the exchange with a pleased smile—as proud as if Poe were his own son—replied, “You’re more than a match for them, Dameron.”

“I’ll take that as a challenge,” Enne replied, returning Lando’s grin, and laughing. She could not remember the last time she felt so carefree; her muscles still ached, her mind still throbbed but, with Poe by her side, BB-8 at her feet, and laughing at a joke with a friend, she was in an idyllic paradise. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring; where’d she go, where’d she live, how she would survive. It was unquestionable to return to Naboo and she couldn’t impose on Lando, friend or no. She couldn’t demand Poe to take her back to the Resistance base.

She knew he held some affection for her but would it extend to trust?

She shoved the thought aside, focusing on her current happiness and the light mood of the lounge.

Playing along with her joke, Lando said, “The lady wants a battle and a battle she’ll get! She can’t take us, can she, Dameron?”

 Shaking his head, Poe chucked a fried crisp at Lando’s head, laughing when he caught it and popped it in his mouth. “Get outta here, Lando, before you get me in trouble,” Poe teased.

Bowing briefly to a light barrage of crisps, Lando made his exit.

Leaning back on the large, rounded couch, Poe gladly accepted the plate—loaded with food—Enne offered him. After a moment, preparing a plate of her own, she glanced back at him before shyly shuffling to his side, leaning into him and tucked her feet under herself. Poe slung an arm around her shoulders, balancing the plate in his lap, and leaning his cheek against the top of her head.

He kissed her curls.

They sat in silence, eating and enjoying the proximity of the other, until the low table before them began to blink. In a polite, high voice, the hologram calling identification announced, “General Leia Organa to speak with Poe Dameron.”

Pulling away, Enne sat upright briskly, asking, “Should I leave?”

Regretting losing the warm pressure of her against him, Poe shook his head. “No, it’s fine. Stay.” Studying his genuine, gentle smile, she nodded hesitantly. Turning to the table, Poe ordered, “Please answer it.”

There was no reply as the hologram winked into life and they were faced with the annoyed frown of General Leia Organa. BB-8 whistled in greeting.

“Dameron, I’m surprise you’re alive,” she began without preamble, her voice crackling with dryness.

“Guilty as charged,” Poe replied, amiably. He knew he would have to face the General’s wrath properly, fully, but not right then. He was too happy, too completely content, to let the General darken his mood.

She scowled, her gaze flicking to Enne. “And you’re the famous Enne?”

Enne stole a glance at Poe before replying shakily, “Well, yes.”

The General studied her for a moment before saying, “Maybe you could tell me why my pilot thought it was so important to save your life.”

Mouth falling open mutely, Enne could only stutter out, “I…well…I’m not really sure…I mean, I’m glad he did.”

“It’s because she saved my life, General. You know that,” Poe added. “I wouldn’t have a life to risk in rescuing her if it wasn’t _because_ of her.” And, though long overdue in the General’s opinion, Poe launched into the events of the past week—he couldn’t believe it had only been a week. He emphasized Enne’s medicinal skills, her bravery at out maneuvering the Stormtroopers, at finding the courage to return to her dark childhood home just to help him escape Naboo. He carefully detailed the horrors of the First Order’s rule on Naboo, how Enne’s brother was executed for assisting rebellious families, and her kindness in attending him. He tried to gloss over her familial ties with Colonel Hux but General Organa quickly picked up his meaning, her mouth tightening into a frown as Poe spoke.

Enne would interject occasionally, insisting Poe over exaggerated her actions. He assured General Organa he only spoke the truth, resisting an amused grin as Enne steadily turned a deep shade of red. When Poe finished the story, there was a long beat of silence. Both Enne and Poe carefully studied the General’s expression but neither could discern her thoughts.

Finally, the General asked, quietly, “Enne, dear, would you mind if I spoke to Poe alone?”

She immediately stood, setting aside her plate. “Of course; I’ll just be down the hall, Poe.”

He nodded in reply, catching her hand to kiss her knuckles, and, when the door slid closed behind Enne, the General asked, “Are you sure we can trust her?”

“Hux _tortured_ her,” Poe replied, setting aside his plate of food to fold his arms across his chest. “She’s not against us, if that’s what your asking.”

“But they’re still siblings,” she returned. “Dameron, I know you really like her and I want to like her too—especially after everything you’ve told me—but we barely know anything beside what she told us.”

“We know she’s no friend of the First Order or her brother,” Poe replied, practically. “I’ve never seen two people look at each other with as much hate as Hux and Enne did. I mean, she hit him with a plate!”

The General remained unconvinced. BB-8 chimed in then: She had every chance to turn Poe and I over but she didn’t.

Poe nodded. “That has to prove something about her character.”

 General Organa sighed. “I’m sorry, Poe. It’s just that we can’t be too safe.”

“I know,” muttered Poe. He didn’t like it in the least but acknowledged the General was right. Nonetheless, he _knew_ her concern was wasted on Enne. Yet, from the General’s tone, he prepared himself for the worst; prepared to hear she needed to be interrogated, returned to Naboo. His mind scrambled at the possibilities. He lowered his eyes, not wanting to meet the General’s eyes when she declared Enne’s fate.

“But.” Poe’s eyes shot back up. “If you trust her, then I trust her too.” She smiled at Poe’s relief before adding, “Besides, she might ground you.”

“Thank you, General. I promise you she’ll be a valuable member of the Resistance. She won’t let anyone down,” Poe exclaimed, wanting to stand up and dance around with BB-8 but contented himself with a broad grin.

General Organa grew quiet. In a soft voice, she asked, “Are you sure she wants to join the Resistance?”    

Poe faltered. “I...I’m not…I don’t know.”

#

Shielding her eyes against the afternoon sun, Enne stared up at the X-wing as Poe practically shook in excitement at her side. BB-8 was whirring in a high, incoherent babble of enthusiasm. The X-wing, black and orange, loomed over them and, though she knew almost nothing about starships, the sight made Enne’s breath catch in her throat. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered reverently.

Poe’s fingers wove together with hers. “Isn’t it?”

BB-8 finally managed to blurt out: please, please, _please_ can we get it?

“Don’t worry, buddy. We’re buying it,” Poe assured.

Laughing, Poe and Enne watched as the little droid began spinning laps around them, trilling out a delighted: WHEEE!

“There’s only one thing wrong with it,” Poe said after a moment.

Arching an eyebrow, glancing up at him to find him staring down at her, Enne asked, “What would that be?”

“I can’t fly it home. There’s only one seat,” Poe replied, waving vaguely at the cockpit with his freehand. She stared at him in silence, her mind scrambling at the implications. Worried by her stunned expression, Poe hastily explained: “I don’t know what your plans are or…or if I’m apart of them. But I want to be so I thought I’d offer just as a possibility—”

Giggling, she interrupted, “What is it, Poe?”

Laughing airily, he blurted: “Would you want to join the Resistance? Come back with me?”

Fighting a smile, trying very hard to scowl at him, Enne demanded, “Isn’t it a little soon to ask me back to your place?”

Poe laughed as her efforts to hide her grin failed and she finally smiled broadly, unable to hide her happiness for a moment longer. She nodded and, tugging at their intertwined hands, he pulled her to him, looping his arms around her waist. He kissed her eagerly, hotly, like he could never have his fill of her.

BB-8 groaned out a low chirp: Gross.

The two separated, Poe chuckling and Enne hiding her giggles behind a hand. Glancing back at the X-wing, Poe nodded towards it, exclaiming, “C’mon. Let’s go take a look.”

Enne let him go ahead, watching as he ran to scale the ladder and slide into the cockpit. BB-8 followed doggedly, equally as thrilled. She returned the beaming grins he shot at her with a soft smile, subconscious and perfectly happy, pulling at her lips. She wondered, briefly, if she could live in this moment for the rest of her life; if her life could be composed of these mundane moments watching the man she—perhaps not _loved_ —but adored and her favorite droid in the entire galaxy, looking so blissfully happy.

#

Three days later, Lando arranged for Poe and Enne to accompany a shipment to D’Qar and the Resistance base. Somehow, each day was better than the one before, though each Enne swore were the best of her life. When the freighter arrived at Cloud City, Enne kissed both Merindo and Lando on their cheeks, swearing her undying gratitude to them for their heroics and hospitality. Poe clapped both the men on the shoulder, promising to look after himself, BB-8, and Enne—but only if she managed to get herself kidnapped again.

Besides that, she was more than capable of managing herself and Poe.

The trio boarded the freighter, the pilot kind enough to arrange a pillowed bench and view for Enne—still naïve of space travel. Seated closely, thighs pressed together, hands clasped, Enne leaning against Poe, she kept careful watch of the stars as they rocketed by. BB-8 was parked at their feet, napping.

When D’Qar came into view—green and peaceful and as beautiful as promised possibility—Enne spoke into the stillness, her voice barely a whisper: “Are we stupid for rushing into this?”

Neither she nor Poe knew exactly to what she referred. Yet, Poe still understood precisely what she meant, though he had no words to explain it. Squeezing her hand, placing a kiss on her curls, he simply said: “Probably.”


End file.
